Red Rose
by Riene
Summary: Complete, novel length. At the end of the musical and book, Christine and Raoul leave, and Erik prepares to die. But events have a way of not working out as we think! E/C, though Raoul lovers will like this. Please Read and Review!
1. Chapter 1 Aftermath

This E/C story takes place after the end of the ALW musical and borrows elements from both Leroux and Kay.  Be warned--I am aiming for a happy ending for all concerned here, and Raoul is treated kindly.  After all, his only crime was in loving Christine!

The Usual Disclaimer--All characters belong either to Gaston Leroux, Andrew Lloyd Webber, or the RUG.   I only wish it were mine—then I could have the ending I want…

In regard to the French language, Paris, certain songs, the Opera Charles Garnier, and _Aida—all errors and liberties taken are mine.  I am assuming for the purposes of this story, that Christine was Catholic, despite her Scandinavian origins.  Perhaps her mother was Catholic…._

A/N—this story was updated 4-26-03, with very minor revisions in grammar/spelling.

Copyright 2003.

**"Red Rose"**

**1.  Aftermath**

Holding hands like scared children, they ran up the rough rocky path toward the light.  Christine cast a glance back over her shoulder at the sounds of the destruction and stumbled.  

"Raoul, we can't just go and leave him there!  They'll kill him!"  Her blue eyes were wide with fear and she grabbed desperately at his arm.

He gripped her shoulders and helped her to her feet.  "Christine, he'll be all right," Raoul said quietly.  "You know no one ever sees the Opera Ghost unless he wants them to.  He'll hide somewhere safe until this is over."

She fought loose from his hands.  "You can't know that."  She stared frantically down the stone corridor and he caught her hand, pulling her close.

"Christine, listen to me.  He sent us, sent you away to ensure your safety.  Don't ruin whatever plans he has by going back down there!  Let me take you away from here, back to your flat."  The concern in his loving eyes made her drop her head and blush, her hair hiding her expression.  

"All right, Raoul," Christine said tiredly.  "Take me home."  He put a supportive arm around her waist and held her close.  For a long minute they clung to each other in the darkness before turning once more toward their future.

Two days later, Raoul came to take her away from Paris.

Raoul sat across from her in his family's carriage, smiling.  The woman across from him smiled back, delight clearly written on her lovely face.  It was a crisp cold winter day, the kind Mother Nature occasionally found fit to bestow on her children.  The sharp rhythm of the horses' hooves matched the slight sway in the carriage.  Christine placed her feet carefully on the well-wrapped heated brick and relaxed against the thick crimson cushions.  For now, the _Républicque was at peace, and they would spend Christmas at the de Chagny country estate._

City streets, shops, and restaurants passed outside.  Looking out of the small rectangular windows in the carriage, Christine could see people intent on their errands and the other mundane activities of their daily lives.  The busy urban center gradually gave way to quiet neighborhoods and then the bleak, barren fields of winter as the carriage made its way north to Beauvais.

Raoul proudly held out a hand to help her down from the carriage and gave brisk orders for her baggage to be removed and sent upstairs.  The driver led the horses on around the winding lane toward the stables and Christine looked about with amazement.

The estate was not large, but the well-maintained landscaped gardens and lovely old house of time-mellowed stone were breathtaking.  Raoul placed a proprietary hand on her elbow as they walked up the worn stone stairs and through the front door.

She surrendered her cherry-colored coat with its soft collar of warm brown fur to the waiting hands of the servant that greeted their arrival.  Behind them two other men were busily unloading their scant luggage in preparation to take it upstairs.  Raoul smiled at her encouragingly and whispered in her ear, "Don't be nervous!  Philippe's not here.  It's just my aunt and the servants.  You won't have to meet anyone else for a few days."  

Raoul took her hand and escorted his fiancé down the large foyer and across to a set of double doors.  "This was my mother's favorite room.  I hope you'll like it."

He opened the doors and stepped through.  Christine followed and looked about the room, with its softly glowing colors of deep green, gold, and wine red, and the immense fireplace that dominated the far left wall, its mantle lined with figurines, in awe.  An empire-style sofa was set in the center of the room, with chairs to either side, all flanking a low, polished table of golden satiny wood.  Tall windows partially covered by heavy corded draperies lined one wall.  A graceful, gilded pianoforte stood as if awaiting a singer near the right wall.  Christine clasped her hands together, delighted.

"Raoul, this is lovely!"

He smiled and lifted her hand, kissing her fingers.  "I thought you might like it.  Once we are married, this room will be yours; you may make it over however you wish," he said generously.  "We only use it when visitors arrive, so consider it your own."

Christine thanked him again shyly.  "Do you entertain often?  I'm not sure I'm ready to host _salons_!"

He took her arm, laughing.  "Not often.  People get together to hunt, or for dinner.  Quite often we'll go on holiday to the coast, or down to one the larger cities.  Surely you are not worried about meeting strangers after all your time in Paris!"

The next few days passed quickly.  Raoul took her out in the carriage for a tour of the surrounding countryside, proudly pointing out features and telling funny stories from his childhood.  At one point he looked up to find her watching him with a pensive expression.

"What is the matter, my darling?' he asked tenderly.

Christine smiled wistfully.  "I was just thinking about how different our childhoods were.  You had everything you could want—lessons, holidays, toys, schooling, but only the company of your brother.  How lonely you must have been," she said softly.  "I had Papa, but we had no real home for many years.  Papa and I loved each other very much.  I did not mind poverty when we had each other and our music.  You must have thought me a very naïve child when first we met."  Christine made a self-deprecating little grimace.

Raoul fell silent, looking into her gentle face.  "No," he said simply, "I never thought you odd.  I was jealous you had your father.  I remember so little of my parents, and Philippe is so much older than I.  The times we played together as children were wonderful for me."  He reached out and caressed her cheek.  "I'm so glad to have found you again, Christine."

She smiled deeply into his blue eyes and Raoul felt his heart catch.  She was so lovely.  Truly, God had been watching out for him that night he agreed to accompany Philippe to the Opera.

Rather to his surprise, Christine rarely sang around the chateau.  She did appear to enjoy the salon, often curling up there with a book.  He teased her about it, saying he had not known she was such a reader, and Christine had smiled faintly.  She had not been much of a reader before meeting her dark angel of music.  Many evenings, they had spent time together in a large, open room lined with bookshelves and literally hundreds of bound leather volumes.  Erik had been knowledgeable about nearly every field of science, literature, and history.  She had felt shamed by her own ignorance and had confessed so, in the face of his much greater understanding.

_Gleaming black eyes studied her from behind the mask.  "Why should this worry you?  You have spent your life training your body for the stage, and now your voice for the opera.  I have had very little to do with my time, all these years, and reading has helped to fill my days.  I do not think any less of you, Christine," he had said quietly._

Unhappy that she had once again reminded him of his solitary existence, she had flushed and dropped her gaze.  Wisely, Erik had said nothing else on the topic.  In the days to follow, she discovered new books on the shelves in her room; light romances, vivid travelogues of foreign lands, comic novellas, poetry, and several classics.  He would gently ask her what she had read and liked.  It became habit for him to discuss his own researches and pursuits with her, often reading aloud from the volumes he consumed in such great quantities.  Some evenings they would read plays, each taking different characters, until they roared with laughter at the effort to portray so many roles.  In his own deft way, Erik had understood her dissatisfaction at her own formal education and had sought a way to help.  Though he never spoke of his desire to help her widen her mind, Christine knew and deeply appreciated his efforts on her behalf.

Several events had disturbed Christine's pleasure in this, her first visit to the de Chagny estate.  Philippe had arrived a few days after later, and though he greeted Christine with stiff politeness, it was clear he was displeased with his younger brother's actions.  They had retreated to Philippe's masculine study to "discuss matters of the family business", but Christine had heard her name mentioned in the heated exchange that followed.  Raoul had emerged white-lipped with fury and had refused to discuss the conversation.

Evenings were the most difficult periods of the day.  Dining at the de Chagny estate was a formal affair.  Used to the rigorous life of the theatre and of ballet, Christine found the rich, heavily seasoned food each night almost more than she could eat.  The stilted conversation made the meal even more awkward.  She knew very little from the _haute monde of Parisian society and was reluctant to gossip about the people she had known in the Opera.  Christine had also flatly refused to discuss with anyone the events of the previous autumn._

Perhaps the most painful single example had been the dinner party given in her honor.  Christine had worn the best dress she had, a charming lavender-blue that made her eyes appear even more intense.  Hortense, the little maid of Raoul's aunt, had come and helped to dress her hair for the evening, commenting on its luxuriance and length.  Christine fastened her Papa's crucifix around her neck, thinking she was prepared for the evening.

Raoul had invited four other couples, relatives and friends of the family.  She was anxious to make a good first impression, knowing these people would be her intimate circle from now on, and she was prepared to be a gracious hostess for the night.  In the end, it had taken all her skills learned in the theatre to maintain the façade of her composure that evening.

Raoul had been genuinely glad to introduce Christine to his cousins and friends as "my dear fiancé" and like most men, was blind to the sharp looks of examination and evaluation by which a woman takes the measure of another.  She felt her face flame, uncertain why she was dismissed so coolly by these well-bred people of society, and yet determined they should not see her hurt.  The months spent under Carlotta came to her aid that evening as she ignored the sly comments and cutting questions about her family, her past, and the dubious reputation they seemed to feel anyone who appeared on the stage should have.  Christine somehow lasted through the evening, but had lain awake in mingled fury and tears for hours that night.

She could not dismiss a growing awareness that they had some how made a mistake.  Raoul held her close, and was generous in his affections.  His hands were always gentle, respectful when he touched her, yet she could feel the veiled passion in his kiss.  That Raoul felt ardor, felt desire was obvious, but what did she, Christine feel?  Only one time had she kissed a man and felt anything stir inside her. That one kiss had haunted her dreams.  Up in her darkened bedroom, Christine leaned back against the wall of the window seat, gazing out across the moonlit courtyard.

 _She approached him, pity in her heart.  This poor man, having never known love or human compassion.  Even now, in his eyes she saw the endless depths of sorrow and fear through which he viewed life.  Facing him, she thought of the times he had helped her, listened to her problems, how he had risked so much, and she had given so little.  Thinking perhaps to bribe him with a promise to return, Christine stepped closer, seeing his eyes widen.  She placed her hands on his shoulders and gently touched her lips to his._

_He gasped, the exquisite pressure of her lips and closeness of her body too much for his senses to bear.  For a moment, his hands which had never before made an abrupt or inelegant gesture flailed wildly in the air.  Confused by his unreasoning panic, Christine broke the brief contact and looked up into his dilated black eyes._

_A lifetime's yearning stared back at her, then Erik bent his face to her own, kissing her with a desperate intensity.  For several minutes Christine stood with her arms tightly around him, feeling his warm, soft mouth upon hers.  Her flesh came alive with a need to absorb him into her very core, to perpetuate this incredible rush of sensation.  _

_His tall, slim muscular form shaking uncontrollably, Erik pushed her away violently, and she stepped back, still feeling the heat from his body, unable to meet his grief stricken expression, stunned at what they had shared._

_Erik turned to Raoul, watching with surprise and horror.  "Take her and go!  Go now!" he had shouted._

Flushing, Christine put her hands to her face.  With Raoul, there was no uncertainty, no terror.  She loved the handsome young Vicomte de Chagny; she wore his ring.  Why then did his kisses not arouse the same need within her?  

Twisting the gold ring on her finger, Christine let her head rest against the cool glass window.  Their engagement was universally envied at the Opera Populaire, and she would be safe, cherished at his side.  And it would be at his side, for Raoul had told her simply that she would not appear on the stage again, once they were married.  His brother had been most insistent.  The family's reputation must be considered, and for a wife to work at any job was demeaning to the husband.  Raoul had seemed honestly bewildered at her less than enthusiastic reaction to this news.

Explanation had only made it worse.

_"But I love the music for its own sake, Raoul!  It's not the applause or the fame!  Performing is harder work than you think it is!" __she stormed angrily._

_"It is no longer an issue; you will never work again," he snapped, goaded at this unusual defiance._

_"I've worked and studied, I've practiced for this for years!"_

_"You may sing here in our house, you may sing for our guests if you want an audience!  But you will not appear on the stage of the Opera, or on any other stage while you are my wife!"_

_Raoul felt the silence fall between them.  He looked across the table at Christine toying with the delicate stem of her wineglass, turning it slowly in her fingers, staring down into the pale liquid.  She had sent away both her soup and fish courses almost untouched and now sat white with suppressed fury._

_He reached across the table to her, appalled they were having such an argument.  "Christine, I am so sorry.  Perhaps we can arrange for you to sing in the Cathedral choir sometime."  It was a generous offer of conciliation, and they both knew it.  Christine blinked back tears and smiled tremulously at her fiancé.  _

_"Perhaps so, Raoul.  You must excuse me; I must be more tired than I had thought."  She walked around the table, offering her face to be kissed.  "I am going upstairs to bed.  We'll talk about it in the morning."_

When morning came, neither of them mentioned their previous night's discussion.

Raoul folded the paper soberly and laid it aside.  Christine would have to be told, and he did not think she would take the news well.  He had been so certain the clever, tormented man who inhabited the lower levels of the Opera would never be found, much less caught.  Frowning, he walked to the window of Philippe's study and stared out across the gardens, beautiful even in winter.  Christine had not been as happy here as he had hoped.  She had grown quiet, preferring to spend her time in the salon by the fire with a book.  The gilded piano, which at first he had thought would have given her much pleasure remained instead closed and silent.  She had sung for him only once, and had gently but firmly refused to sing in front of his friends.  At the time he had passed it off to shyness or embarrassment, but now he wondered.  

Though he believed she had told him honestly of the events that had transpired during the time she spent underground with the Opera Ghost, Raoul had often wondered if Christine had ever truly examined her feelings for the lonely, tortured genius who had made her the center of his world.  As repulsive as the man looked, there was no denying his brilliance and his unswerving devotion to the young opera singer.

The Vicomte de Chagny sighed and stiffly dropped the curtain across the window again.  His was an old and distinguished family, and he had been taught from birth to believe that duty, however unpleasant, must be faced.  Raoul collected the paper from the little table and headed toward the salon.

Christine rose to her feet with a genuine smile of welcome that quickly faded at his grim expression.  "Raoul," she said worriedly, "what's wrong?"

"Philippe sent me the paper from Paris," he said quietly.  "I'm afraid the news is…not good."

Christine's dark blue eyes widened in her pale face and she took the paper from him with shaking hands.  Raoul turned the pages, pointing silently to the article in the lower left-hand corner.

He was prepared for a hysterical reaction, but Christine grew so white he thought she would faint.  She dropped the paper to the floor and stepped backwards, instinctively running away from the overwhelming pain.  "Oh, Erik, _no!" she cried. Raoul stepped toward her, intending to offer sympathy and comfort but Christine whirled, her face contorted in grief.  "Please don't.  Please just leave me alone," she sobbed, jerking free of his grasp to run toward the doors._

He caught her again in only two steps, pulling her slender body to his and wrapping an arm around her heaving shoulders.  Christine beat her fists against his broad chest in a frenzy of hysteria, while a torrent of tears soaked his starched white shirt front.  Raoul murmured words of comfort into her soft dark hair, holding her carefully.

Eventually, her sobs ceased and she leaned against him exhaustedly.  He guided her over to the plush velvet sofa and gently seated her there.  Raoul released Christine's fingers with a quick squeeze and went to the door, calling for some refreshment to be brought to the salon at once.

When the maid had departed, Christine sat up, automatically reaching for the heavy, ornate silver teapot, lifting it from the tray.  She poured two cups of the fragrant beverage into fragile porcelain cups, adding milk and sugar as needed.  Raoul took the proffered cup and saucer from her, catching her eye.

"Christine, we must talk," he said gently, seeing the apprehension on her face.  "I'm truly sorry about your friend.  And I'm not angry with you, please don't think I am.  But this," he gestured around the airy room.  "You've not been happy here.  I can tell."  His fingers carefully brushed away a new tear that trickled down her pale cheek.  "Was it me?"

Christine gasped and scrambled to her knees, catching his sleeve as he tried to walk away from her.  "Oh, no, Raoul!  Never think that!  You've been kindness itself to me!  It's just—this is not the life I'm used to," she said, struggling to find the words.  "I've never had much money, never had servants.  Papa and I were so poor, you know.  When I was at the _Conservatoire, I was only a student, and even at the Opera, the fame was still so new to me.  This is all a bit…overwhelming," she said honestly._

Raoul sat slowly and leaned back against the arm of the couch.  "Yes, I can see how it would be," he said dryly.  "But Christine, we don't have to live here.  We can always take a set of rooms in Paris, if you would rather live there."

Long dark curls fell across her face as Christine bent forward to replace her cup on the low polished table.  "Raoul," she said in a low voice, "I can't keep letting you think about a future with me.  I love you, but I don't love you enough."  She twisted the ring on her finger nervously.  "You deserve so much more, a wife who can be the mistress of this chateau, who can make you proud.  I'm afraid I will always be an embarrassment to you, and to your family."

He touched her face gently.  "I would never be ashamed of you."

She blinked back tears and looked away, tracing her finger along the carved wooden back of the sofa.  "I am not the kind of woman you should marry, Raoul.  You are…too much like a brother to me," she said quietly.

For a long moment, neither spoke.  "I suppose I deserved that," Raoul said, releasing her hand.  "I've known for a while you didn't…desire me, but I thought I could change your mind, that you would grow to love me as I love you."

"You don't really, you know," Christine said tiredly.  "We've each made the error of mistaking friendship for love."

In a sudden blinding moment of clarity, Raoul stiffened.  "Christine, don't let your sorrow for Erik destroy what we have."

  Her artistic temperament boiled to the surface.  "Don't speak to me about Erik!  You're the one who insisted we leave him behind to face the mob alone!"

Raoul took a deep breath, refusing to be provoked.  "Christine," he said earnestly, leaning forward, "the man was a murderer.  He was hardly sane at times."

"What he did he did for love of me," she replied sadly, her eyes filling with tears once more.

She rose, turning away, and he followed her across the polished floor, cupping her cheek gently with his fingers.  "Christine," he said softly, knowing the answer, "do you love him?"

Her blue eyes looked bruised, and haunted with the past.  "I don't know," she whispered, covering his warm hand with her own and pressing her face into it.  

Raoul smiled sadly down at her.  "Christine, don't tell me stories.  We've known each other too long.  Do you care for this man?"

She drew a long shuddering breath and shut her eyes.  "Yes," she whispered.  "But it's too late now."

He pulled her back into his comforting embrace while she cried again, stroking her soft hair.  After a long interval in which she clung to him and he stared out across the room, seeing the death of his dreams, Raoul gave thought to how to form the next words he knew he must say.  

"Do you want to break our engagement?" he asked softly, lifting her tear-stained face.

Unable to speak, Christine shut her eyes and nodded.  Raoul shut his eyes in pain.  "Then I release you, with no hold on you or your property, with only love in my heart."

Christine slowly pulled off the delicate shining ring from her slender finger and offered it to him.  Raoul took it blindly and merely dropped the golden band into his waistcoat pocket, buttoning it closed.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered.  "I never meant to cause you pain."

Raoul clasped her hands together and raised them up to kiss her fingers lightly.  "Christine," he said quietly, "I will always love you.  If you ever need anything, please know I would move Heaven and Earth to help you."

She smiled tremulously up at him.  "Thank you, Raoul," she said shakily.  "That means a lot to me.  I would have hated to have lost your friendship or your respect over this."

He gave her hands a gentle squeeze and released them.  "Come, then.  Let me take you home in the carriage." 

Once back in Paris, Christine grew pensive and silent.  "What will you do now?" Raoul asked worriedly.

She shrugged.  "Return to the Opera.  I've had two letters from M. Firmin asking if I wouldn't reconsider coming back to them.  With both Piangi and Carlotta gone, and the several others who resigned as well, they are rather desperate for known singers." 

Raoul walked Christine up the flight of stairs into her old set of rooms, carrying her luggage and carefully inspecting the flat, looking for evidence of disturbances during her two months absence.  Satisfied all was well, he turned to go.

Shyly, Christine put a hand on his arm.  "Thank you, Raoul, for everything," she smiled, and he forced himself to smile back.

Outside her flat, Raoul kissed Christine one last time.  For an eternity, he stared down into her midnight blue eyes, memorizing every line of her face, caressing her silky curls.

 "Remember how dear you are to me," he said seriously.  "If you ever need a friend, I am always here for you."  She nodded, unable to speak past the lump in her throat, and hugged him tightly.  As the glossy horses pulled the carriage away, Christine knew another chapter in her life had closed.

@}~--'--,---'---,----

_Reach out to me_

_Call out my name_

_And I would bring you back again today._

_Josh Groban, "Home To Stay"_


	2. Chapter 2 The Opera Charles Garnier de...

The usual disclaimers:  I don't own any of it, unfortunately.  All errors are mine, also unfortunately.

**2.  The Opera Charles Garnier de Paris **

Christine emerged from the managers' office, her face flaming, gripping her gloves tightly in one hand.  Oh, she knew they would take her back, but at their own terms.  She could not afford the risk that they did not need her, in spite of the rumors that their new principal singers were relatively unknown.  M. André had been quite haughty, but M. Firmin had assured her that two months absence could be overlooked.  They were between major productions at the moment, and were willing to renegotiate her contract.

She took a deep breath of relief and leaned against the balustrade of the grand staircase, looking up toward the parterre entrances.  M. Firmin had given permission for her to walk through the Opera and see the recent architectural changes.  From down the corridor she could see people moving about in the daily business of the Opera House.  One or two of them raised a friendly hand to her in greeting and Christine smiled.  She would seek out her friend Meg.

The dancers were milling about after rehearsal when Christine stepped quietly into the room.  For a moment, the familiar scene blurred before her eyes.  An erect, black-clad figure stood to one side, demonstrating proper positioning of the arms to a sulky girl with rolling blue eyes.  Her acerbic comments brought a brief smile to Christine's lovely face.  How well she remembered being the recipient of those instructions!  Then little Jammes caught sight of her and cried out, "Look!  There is Christine, come back to us!" and the entire _corps_ seemed to swarm her at once, asking a hundred questions.

Meg Giry caught her hands in the midst of the chattering girls and her mother cast a disapproving gaze upon them.  She thumped her ebony cane.

"Megan Giry, take Mlle. Daaé aside, if you must talk to her.  I cannot have any more interruptions today!" she said imperiously.

"Yes, Mamman," Meg said obediently, smiling impudently at her friend.

Meg drew her away gently from the curious hard stares of the _corps de ballet_.  They walked quickly down the hall to Meg's small dressing room, shutting the door behind them.

"Christine, why are you here?  The girls said you were seen talking to Monsieur Firmin?"

Christine sighed and held tightly to her friend's hands.  "Oh, Meg, I want to come back here and sing again.  M. Firmin said they would be glad to renegotiate my contract, and that I could probably have my old position back."

Meg squeezed her hands and sank gracefully to the floor.  "Yes, yes.  But what of your marriage?  What of Raoul?  Christine, what _happened?"_

The singer rose and walked over to the little dressing table and trailed fingers slowly along the edge.  She sighed and blinked back tears. 

"Raoul and I have called off our engagement, Meg," she said softly.  "I know people will talk, but it just wasn't right.  I couldn't marry him, feeling as I did."

Meg stared at her, bewildered.  "But you loved him.  You said so, and I know he loved you.  You always seemed so happy together."

Christine managed a small smile.  "Yes," she answered tiredly.  "I still do love him, but not the way I should.  Not the way a wife should.  Raoul is like a brother, or a good friend.  We were children together once, you know.  I think we both thought those feelings would deepen over time into something more.  And then there was…last autumn."  She swallowed hard.  "Raoul wanted to protect me, to be my knight and savior.  And I didn't know what I wanted, either, but I was afraid.  I let him take care of me."  

Christine sank slowly onto Meg's little hard couch, covering her face with her hands.  "I was so confused.  Meg, I didn't know what to do.  I knew Erik loved me, but he also frightened me so much.  I didn't feel I could ever live up to his expectations."

"Erik?" whispered Meg, her eyes wide.

Christine wiped her luminous blue eyes.  "That was his name—the Opera Ghost."

"You never told me that," Meg said sadly.  "You never told me…"

Christine smiled tremulously.  "I know I didn't.  I'm sorry.  He forbade me to speak of him, of his life, and our lessons."  She wiped a crystalline tear away that trickled down her pale cheek.  "He was so kind to me, so gentle.  It was only when he thought Raoul would take me away that he became violent.  He loved me so much, and I didn't know how to return that love.  It was easier to leave with Raoul."

"Where did you go?  It seemed you just disappeared that night," Meg asked, settling back against the couch and preparing for a long talk. 

Her friend clasped her hands tightly together.  "Raoul took me back to my flat, away from the crowds, to protect me.  I think he wasn't sure Erik had really let us go.  The next day he brought me to the house the de Chagny's kept here in Paris.  Oh, it was all very proper," she added hastily, at Meg's expression.  "His aunt was my chaperone at all times.  He wanted to keep me safe and to get to know his family better, before we announced our engagement."

Meg rose gracefully and came to sit on the little couch beside Christine, putting an arm around her friend.  "It all sounds wonderful," she said wistfully.

Christine sighed.  "It should have been."  She stared bleakly across the room, her eyes seeing a different setting.  "I felt so out of place, Meg.  His aunt had to take me shopping so I would have the appropriate clothing just to come down stairs to dinner.  And Philippe—his brother—was so disapproving.  He'd remind Raoul—oh, never in my hearing, he thought—that I was an actress and singer.  Whatever would their parents have said?  They should have chosen a wife for him years ago, a girl of a noble family, one who could have brought a dowry, or land, or who had at least an aristocratic name.  I had nothing, was nothing."  Her eyes overflowed.

Meg made an outraged noise.  "How cruel!  What did Raoul say?"

"He didn't care.  He loved me.  And Philippe was furious.  He forbade Raoul to marry me, but Raoul wanted to take me away and marry me anyway."  She sighed and stood, pacing the floor.  "He took me to their country estate, near Beauvais.  It's where they'd planned for him to live after his marriage.  He wanted me to meet his friends and cousins, and it was then I began to realize what a dreadful mistake I'd made."  She fell silent, twisting a long brown curl through her fingers.

Meg rose tactfully.  "Would you like a cup of tea, Christine?  Or some cocoa?"  

Christine nodded slowly.  "Yes," she whispered.  "That would be nice."

Meg swept back her blond curls and quickly heated water on the gas ring, giving her friend time to compose herself.  She mixed cocoa and sugar in a pale yellow pot, then silently handed her a cup and saucer, placing a few biscuits around the edge.

Christine clasped the proffered drink, wrapping her fingers about the cup to warm them.  "Thank you," she said shakily.

Meg squeezed her arm gently.  "Christine, you don't have to tell me, if you don't want to," she said softly, her big eyes worried.

Christine wiped her eyes.  "No, please, it's all right—it helps to talk about it.  No one understands."  She sipped the cocoa.  "Everything was so different.  I'd had no idea, really, what it would have meant to be his wife.  Everything was so formal, so controlled.  I suppose I was remembering our time together as children, when we were carefree.  We dressed for dinner every night.  I had only one or two frocks—there hadn't been enough time to have the seamstress make me more before we left Paris.  I had no jewelry, beside my crucifix that Papa had given me, and his ring.  The other women looked at me so, you can't imagine.  And there were the little comments. 'Tell me again where our Raoul met you?  Oh, how charming,'" she mimicked.  "Some of those women were just hateful!  And how could I tell Raoul?  They were the wives of his friends, people he had known for years."  

She carefully placed the fragile cup back into its saucer.  "He was honestly bewildered why I wasn't happy.  He was so innocent, he never saw the sly looks or heard the comments people made."

"And then, one day, Philippe sent us the paper, _L' Époque."_

Meg's eyes grew wider in comprehension.  "The one with the announcement."

Christine's eyes filled with tears again.  "Yes.  I read those words—'Erik is Dead', and my heart just stopped inside me.  I sank to the floor and sobbed.  Poor Raoul, he had no idea why I was so heartbroken.  I begged to be left alone, to go up to my room, to be alone with my memories, but Raoul kept me with him and held me, trying to understand about Erik."

"I know everyone thinks he was a monster," she said savagely, "and God knows I thought so too, for a while.  But no one else ever saw the side of him I did.  He was always so gentle with me, so respectful.  He never, ever touched me.  We sang together.  He would listen to me talk about my day and ask questions.  He was kind to me when I was ill or upset.  We ate simple meals together and sat by the fire, talking about books or playing chess.  He wrote beautiful music, songs meant only for me to sing, that were perfect for my voice.  He gave me everything, and asked nothing in return."  Christine hid her face in her hands, rocking back and forth with her grief.  "I didn't understand how he loved me.  I thought he was just my kind Angel of Music, sent by my father.  I was so naïve!"

"But his face?  Christine, I saw him that night!  He was horrible, horrible to look at!  The girls of the _ballet still talk about it!" Meg whispered.  "How could you care for him, when he stole you from the stage, when you knew what lay behind that mask?"_

Christine stared fiercely at her.  "And what of his face?  How could I have been so foolish to think that his face mattered?  Yes, he was hideously scarred!  But that was no fault of his own!  Many men come back from the wars injured, and no one gives it a second thought!  What was more ugly—the hateful, hurtful comments of those ladies of society, of the nobility, those who were beautiful on the outside and cruel, cruel on the inside?  Or my Erik?  My gentle Angel, who cared for me tenderly and who had a scarred face?  God will never forgive me the hurt I've caused him," she wept.

Meg crept closer, holding her friend gently and laying her head upon Christine's bowed shoulder.  "I'm sorry," she said softly.  "I didn't know, I didn't think of it, of him, like that.  I know he's been a good friend to my mother, all of these years.  He helped her to get this job here, and I'm sure he put in a word for me in the _ballet_, though Mamman's never said so.  But Christine, he took you away from us, that night on the stage.  He dragged you away.  What happened, down under the Opera that night?"

The singer quietly, sadly relayed the events of that fateful night.  "And then I kissed him, Meg," she concluded.  "I meant it as a bribe, as a kiss goodbye.  I thought surely he would understand.  I was the one who didn't understand.  He just stood there, looking at me with heartbreak in his eyes.  I've never felt a kiss like that before."  She shivered.  "It was like, oh, I can't even describe it.  I've been kissed before, by Raoul, and others.  But no one ever made me feel that way before."  She blushed.  "I wanted him, then."

"Christine!"

"I know, Meg, it wasn't something a good, chaste Catholic girl should even know about.  But I've overheard the girls in the _corps_ talk about their lovers.  The noblewomen in Beauvais used to speak of it, wickedly, about their husbands and lovers.  And I knew then, what I felt for Raoul wasn't like that.  I loved him like the brother he had been, when we were small.  That wasn't fair to Raoul, Meg.  He deserved a wife that loved him for himself, who desired him as a wife should love and desire her husband." 

 She turned and clasped Meg's hands in her own.  "We talked and talked it over, Meg.  He would have married me anyway.  But I think Philippe's comments were starting to worry him, and he could see how uncomfortable I was in that life.  He didn't want me to be unhappy, and we parted the best of friends.  He told me he would always be there for me, if I ever needed him, for old time's sake."  She took a deep breath.  "And so I came back here.  I had no idea how much I had missed Paris, had missed singing.  I would never have been able to sing again, had I married Raoul.  Philippe pointed out the wife of a Chagny would never demean herself or the family name by appearing on stage, but oh, how I would have regretted it."

"Erik took such pains to help me make my voice beautiful.  What would he think of me now?" she said sadly.  "That night I left with Raoul, he told me he loved me.  He sent me away with Raoul, because he wanted me to be happy.   And I had betrayed him in the cruelest way possible, in front of the audience, by revealing his face.  I've hated myself ever since that night."  She fell silent.

"What will you do now?" Meg asked gently.

Her friend shook her head.  "I don't really know.  I hope M. Firmin can persuade M. Andre to let me return.  Perhaps my Angel will hear me sing, wherever he is now, and know it wasn't all for naught."

A messenger arrived at her flat the next day, bearing a note from the managers M. Firmin and M. André that the Opera Garnier would be delighted if Mlle. Daaé would consent to return to them.  On wings of relief, Christine packed a small valise, swirled her blue cloak about her shoulders and hailed a cab to the Opera house.  Even the masks and busts around the top of the ornate stone building seemed all to be smiling down at her today.

Christine rose from her dressing table, having finally settled her possessions back into the little room to her satisfaction.  The room had been dreadfully grimy; cleaning it had taken some time.  Apparently no one had entered here, much less cleaned, since she herself had left last.  She looked around the room fondly, having rearranged the simple furnishings somewhat.  The white-painted walls were edged in gilt trim, the carpet a deep green.  She had pulled the little dressing table and its small pier-glass closer to the gas lights, and moved the chaise-couch with its gold velvet cushions away toward the wall across from the tiny fireplace.  A small table had been added, its supporting legs formed in the same shape as the lyres atop the roof.  This she moved next to the chaise.  Lastly, she turned the dressing-screen at an angle where it shielded her against casual observers and the light fell upon the green and gold woven tapestry panels.  Her arrangements complete, Christine walked to her wall of mirrors, staring sadly at the image reflected.  The girl who stared back at her had older, sadder eyes set in a somber pale face.  From behind this mirror her dark angel had watched her, sung to her, protected her.  She touched the smooth surface gently.

_Where are you now, Erik? she wondered.  She had no way to know where or how he had been buried, no way to contact the one whom she assumed had placed the death notice and dealt with the formalities of the burial.  She wondered what had become of his possessions, if anything had been salvaged from that night.  She could not even mourn him properly._

Hesitantly she touched the side of the mirror, running her hand along the nearly invisible seam between the wall and frame.  A slim metal bar, apparently part of the supporting framework, moved slightly under her hand.  With the sounds of her own heartbeat pounding loudly in her ears, Christine pressed the lever inwards and upwards.  Slowly the mirror turned on its soundless, carefully counterbalanced mechanism.

She stepped through, heedless of the dust and cobwebs.  The little lantern was still set into its niche, where Erik had left it for her, to light her path in his dark demesne.  Christine set it back carefully.  Perhaps she would mourn her Angel in her own way.

Though other mundane chores occupied her time, Christine reviewed her libretto and practiced for days in the solitude of her tiny flat, using the scales and exercises Erik had taught her.  She sang for hours, careful not to strain her voice, seeking to regain the tone, stamina, and flexibility she had lost.  She met with the other new principals and found time to attend Mass regularly.  The preliminary rehearsal for the new opera, _Aida would begin soon.  It had been performed successfully in Egypt, and the Opera Garnier was hoping for a spectacular European debut._

(A/N—_Aida was first performed at the Opera Populaire on 22 March 1880)_

Christine had resumed her place at the Opera with the understanding she would share leading roles with the other new singers that had been hired.  The managers optimistically assumed her name and scandal would bring them more tickets sales from the idle curious though she had been cautioned not to make a public spectacle of herself again.  They had raised surprised eyebrows at her humble request to keep her inconveniently placed old dressing room, but in the end allowed it, for it meant not displacing the other singers.  Christine did not explain why she wanted the small awkward room and they did not ask.

All in all, it was an easier transition than she expected.  After the first few days, the girls of the _ballet corps_ no longer made rude or sly comments in her presence, finding that they provoked no reaction whatsoever.  She dined occasionally with the Girys, and attended rehearsals for the upcoming performance of _Aida _during the days.  Christine had been offered the role of Amneris, but knew the part was written for a mezzo-soprano.  Without a voice teacher to help her with her lower range, Christine had chosen to take the relatively minor role of the High Priestess instead for her return to the stage.  She sensed a certain amount of respect and relief from the other principals at this decision.

Once again, Christine walked to her mirror.  She had dressed for him with care, in a sapphire blue velvet gown he had always admired.  Christine left her hair down, held back only with a pair of simple combs, long loose curls rippling down her back.  The image greeted her this time with heightened color and burning eyes.  Quickly she activated the mechanism and lit the lantern with a slender taper taken from the fire in her dressing room.  The wavering shadows thrown up on the stone walls held no fear for her and Christine turned toward the darkness.

She found her feet flying rapidly down the dank chill passage, her dancer's body remembering the precise number of steps and turnings in the labyrinthine darkness; it was only when she thought at all about the path her feet stumbled.  The hewn cobbles abruptly transitioned to natural stone and soon Christine found herself on the edge of the subterranean lake.

The mob had found a way around the rocky edges of the lake to his underground house, but the men had not been hampered by heavy skirts and thin slippers.  She settled the small lantern carefully on a protuberance of stone and shrouded its light.

Christine stood on the rocky prominence where Erik had usually moored his boat and stared across the eerily still dark water and at the faint fog above it which obscured the cavern's ceiling, feeling the prickle of tears in her eyes.  "Oh, Erik, where are you now?" she whispered, without conscious knowledge of when her thoughts became words.  "I miss you so much, and I never had a chance to tell you goodbye.  Perhaps somehow, you can hear me tonight.  Can you, Erik?  Did you know it was just two years ago tonight that you first spoke to me, first sang to me?"  She shivered slightly in the chill air and pulled her velvet wrap closer about her shoulders.  "I brought you a gift, my love.  Remember once when you told me the black rose was your favorite, and I argued with you?  I said it wasn't really black, only a very dark red.  I've brought you one last rose.  It's only a bud, because our relationship never had a chance to blossom." 

She straightened her shoulders, settling her body into a trained singer's posture, and lifted her chin.  "Erik, you told me once that my voice brought you the only pleasure you had ever known.  I hope somehow you can hear me now."

Ignoring the cold and the oppressive silence, Christine shut her eyes and raised her hands unselfconsciously toward the opposite shore and began to sing.

She sang to him the songs he had written just for her.  She sang him Aminta's song of passion from his ill-fated opera, so he could hear it once as it deserved to be sung.  She sang to him all the emotion, love, loss, and longing she had never dared tell him with her eyes or her words.  She sang to him the Requiem.

Christine knelt gracefully at the water's edge, not caring if her blue dress trailed in the dust and mud, looking out across the lake.  "Goodbye, my love," she whispered, her throat aching with grief and strain, beyond seeing, beyond words, as the tears overflowed her eyes and spilled down her cheeks.  She placed the rose into the water and pushed it gently toward the opposite shore, toward what once was his home, and covered her face with her hands, sobbing.

The man straightened sharply, his skeletal fingers tightening convulsively on the arms of his heavy carven black chair.  The voice, that achingly beautiful voice that haunted his dreams and tortured his nights pierced him to his soul like a sliver of steel.  Was he finally, truly going mad?  He staggered from the chair, one hand reaching desperately toward the open doorway, from whence the sound now poured.  Had they contrived somehow a new torment for him?  He stumbled toward the doorway and out to the little jetty that protected his boat from sight.  The beautiful music swirled across the water and surrounded him.  The man fell to his knees, clasping his hands together tightly to keep from crying out, bowing his head in agony.  It could be none other than she—Christine.  However had she come to be here, now?  She was married and living far away.  How could she be singing at his lake once more?  

His anguished thoughts spun frantically in his mind, but the musician dominant in his soul slowly began to focus on the words and melodic phrases that came to him from across the lake.  She was singing to him all the songs he had written for her, songs no one else would now ever hear.  The passionate longing in her voice during Aminta's duet was very nearly his undoing, and his hands twisted together, his nails scoring his palms.  It was not until she sang the Requiem that he finally understood.  This was his memorial, his funeral concert.  She sang for a man now dead.  Putting his bleeding hands over his face, he wept.

Christine sobbed until she had no more strength left in her tired body.  Wearily, she stared out across the lake, wondering dully if she would ever return to this sacred place.  She rose stiffly, slowly reaching for the shrouded lantern, and made her way back to the world of the living, unaware of the burning eyes that followed her.

Long thin fingers reached over the side of the dark, intricately carved boat and plucked the dark blossom from the icy water.  He knelt in the bottom of the vessel and held its fragile beauty in his cold hands, wondering.  The man lifted the rose to his nostrils and inhaled its sweet fragrance deeply before he gently, reverently tucked the bud into his jacket, close to his aching heart.

Adele Giry dismissed the _corps with a few carefully chosen words and walked sedately back to the cramped office the managers allotted to her.  She sat at the desk, frowning at the undone work that lay before her, then froze, her head spinning around as a tall gaunt man stepped from the shadows._

Her spine stiffened and she caught her breath.  "It pleases me to see that the managers were incorrect, as usual, and that you have survived," she said crisply, after a moment.

Erik smiled without humor.  "As far as they are concerned, I am dead."

She inclined her head.  "And the Opera Ghost?"

"Is dead, too."  The unmasked side of his face tightened briefly.  "May I sit?"

She nodded imperiously.  "Of course."

For several long moments they looked across the narrow desk at each other, and then her face softened briefly.  "I am glad to see their efforts were not successful, Erik," she said quietly.

He acknowledged the comment with an almost imperceptible nod.  "Mme. Giry, why is she…Christine…back here?  I would have thought…."  His voice trailed off.

Adele Giry shrugged expressively.  "I do not know—truly I do not," she added, at the expression on his face.  "She has spoken to Meg, of course, but they have not chosen to bring me into their confidence," she continued dryly.  "I only know she has asked to return to the Opera, in whatever capacity they would like to accept her, and that she no longer wears the Vicomte's engagement ring."  She sat silent, dark eyes studying his face as he absorbed these bits of news.

Erik turned away, into the shadows, his heart constricting painfully in his chest.  "It is of no importance to me, anymore," he said quietly, though they both knew he lied.  "I merely wished to let you know I was…still around.  I have no intention on returning to my previous activities, though I wish I could somehow keep my favorite seat on the grand tier."

"It could be arranged, perchance, as a 'haunted box' again?"

"By the ghost of a ghost?" he said sarcastically.  "Somehow I rather doubt that would work."

Adele Giry watched the embittered man in front of her with sympathy.  Although faultlessly attired as ever, he had obviously lost weight, and looked as though he had not slept since the mob had torn his house apart two months ago.

"Erik, have you thought that perhaps it is time to move on?" she inquired delicately, folding her hands on the desk in front of her.  "This building can have nothing but unpleasant associations for you."

The shoulders under the black cloak sagged slightly.  "Where else do you propose I go?" he asked acidly, pacing to the door and back again.  "I have no other home but this.  My few possessions are here, those that the mob did not destroy."  His hands tightened briefly into fists. 

From the corridor came the sound of voices, and he moved quickly back into the shadows, against the wall.  When Stephan, the present stage manager, stepped into her office, Adele Giry was alone.

The singers milled about aimlessly, waiting for rehearsal to start.  Helene Dupré, the soprano who replaced Carlotta, chatted with the tenor Jules Lavigne.  Christine sat on a bundle of old curtains, talking animatedly to Meg, who was awaiting her mother before the _corps de ballet_ went off to their own practice.  Beside the great rows of cabling that ran upwards to the ranks of backdrops, M. Firmin spoke to Stephan, who then waved his hands and swore.  The company fell silent, watching with interest.  M. Firmin turned toward the singers, looking at them appraisingly, then back to Stephan and M. Andre, who had just entered.  They came toward the assembled singers.

M. Firmin cleared his throat.  "We regret to tell you that rehearsal will be somewhat delayed.  Odile has met with an unfortunate accident, and probably will be unable to continue in her role as Amneris."  He held up his hands to silence the babble of voices.  "I do not know!  From what I am given to understand, there was an accident last evening involving her carriage and some ice.  She was flung from the carriage into the road.  Mlle. Odile was not seriously injured, but has caught a severe cold and her doctor insists she be kept quiet so as to not develop pneumonia.  Her understudy Suzette was not scheduled to be here today for rehearsal, and at the moment, we cannot seem to find her.  Rehearsal will be the delayed until she can get here."

The company exchanged glances and began to express their sympathy and concern.  Christine found the brown-eyed stage manager eying her speculatively.  He walked toward her.

"Christine," Stephan said in a low voice, "I know you are not a mezzo, but are you familiar with Odile's part of the score?  We really must get in some rehearsal time today, and we're already seriously delayed."

Her blue eyes went wide.  "Of course I've read over the part, but I've not practiced it.  If you really need me to sing it today I will do my best until Suzette can get here."

He patted her hand.  "Good girl."

Stephan clapped his hands smartly together.  "Attention!  Mlle. Daaé will sing the part of Amneris today, until Suzette can be found.  Get in your positions, please, and clear the stage."

Christine looked up nervously and found Helene smiling at her.  "Good luck, Christine!" she whispered quickly.  "I have no lower register at all!  You're the only one who can step in right now."

She clutched the score tightly in her suddenly cold fingers.  "Thank you, Helene," she said faintly, and moved into position.

Christine stepped forward and raised her voice in Amneris' song, looking directly into Box Five, praying her voice would hold for the length of the song.  It could have been written for her.

How have I come to this?  
How did I slip and fall?  
How did I throw half a lifetime away  
Without any thought at all?  
  
This should have been my time  
It's over, it never began.  
I closed my eyes to so much for so long  
And I no longer can.  
  
I tried to blame it on fortune,  
Some kind of shift in a star,  
But I know the truth, and it haunts me.  
It's flown just a little too far.  
I know the truth, and it mocks me,  
I know the truth, and it shocks me.  
It's flown just a little too far.  
  
Why do I want him still?  
Why, when there's nothing there?  
How to go on with the rest of my life,  
to pretend I don't care?  
  
This should have been my time.  
It's over, it never began.  
I closed my eyes to so much for so long  
And I no longer can.  
  
I tried to blame it on fortune,  
Some kind of twist in my fate,  
But I know the truth, and it haunts me.  
I learned it a little too late.  
Oh, I know the truth, and it mocks me,  
I know the truth, and it shocks me,  
I learned it a little too late.  
Too late.

Erik leaned forward, fingers tightening bloodlessly on one knee.  She sang as if her heart was breaking, as if her lover truly had died.  Could she possibly be singing this for him?  Unable to bear the sorrow in her tone, he slipped soundlessly into the passage behind the column and made his way back to his silent lair.

Christine sat with Meg in her dressing room later, talking quietly about the rehearsal and drinking mugs of sweetened tea.  "At least I didn't do too badly," she sighed, pleating the material of her dress between her fingers.  "Suzette came in about half-way through the afternoon and took over the role—and it was obvious she hadn't even begun to look at it, much less practice it!  Stephan was _furious_ with her!" she giggled.  

Meg laughed, delight in her wide blue eyes.  "Oh, I am so glad!  She's always been so unkind to me and the other girls!"

Christine grew sober.  "Meg, listen.  They want me to take on the role of Amneris now!  Suzette was hopeless, and Odile is too ill to perform.  Whatever shall I do?"  She fell silent, warming her fingers on the mug of tea.  "I can handle the role, I think, but my throat is sore from singing that low.  I wish…" her voice trailed off.

Meg regarded her with sympathy.  "What is the matter, Christine?  You can sing the part of Amneris; you've sung much more difficult pieces before."

Her friend squeezed her hand at the compliment.  "It's not the role, Meg, it's my range.  I was just thinking about my Angel of Music again—Erik could have helped me with this.  He would have known some wonderful way to soothe and strengthen my voice and would have helped me to rehearse."  She wiped away the sudden moisture from her expressive blue eyes.  "I miss him so much, Meg.  He was my friend as well as my teacher.  It's still so hard to believe he is dead."

There was a long pause as Meg regarded her strangely.  "I'm not certain that he _is_ dead, Christine," she said at last.  "I wasn't going to tell you this.  I overheard my mother speaking to someone in her office a few days ago, but when I walked in, no one was there.  She pretended not to know what I was asking about, but I saw her watching me later."  She tugged a blond curl distractedly.  "Christine, that night the men found his house under the Opera, they went in and destroyed everything they could find.  But they didn't find _him.  It wasn't until days later that a body was found floating in the lake, dressed like the Opera Ghost."_

Meg leaned forward, holding Christine's hands, looking anxiously up into her white face.  "What if he escaped?  You've said he was clever—what if he found some way to make them think he was dead?"

Christine sat as if frozen, her thoughts whirling.  "I don't know, Meg.  How could he not be dead?  No one has heard from him in weeks.  He's not…he hasn't…."  She buried her face in her hands.

Meg sat as if stricken.  "Oh, Christine, I'm so sorry.  He hasn't come to you?  Is that what you were going to say?"

She nodded, unable to speak, and Meg held her hands tightly.  "Perhaps he has gone away, or he may not even know you're here.  Don't give up yet!  You've only been back a few days.  Is there any way you could go to him?" she asked excitedly.

Christine looked dazed.  "I don't know.  Perhaps, yes.  If I still have it.  Erik gave me a key once to let me in to his house under the Opera!"  She smiled brilliantly at Meg, hope shining in her heart.

Christine wrapped the robe around her nightgown and pulled the belt tight.  She knelt in front of her old dresser and slowly opened the bottom drawer.  Programs, a fan, a box of dried rose buds, notes and cards from admirers, photographs, and other sundry items were stacked neatly in the drawer.  A flat box lay underneath the mementoes from her brief career last fall, and she lifted it carefully out.  Christine opened the box with shaking fingers and stared at the large heavy key, then clasped it to her heart.

@}~--'--,---'---,----

_I get along without you, very well_

_Of course I do._

_Except when soft rains fall_

_And drip from leaves then I recall_

_The thrill of being sheltered in your arms.___

_Of course, I do._

_But I get along without you, very well._

_I've forgotten you just like I should_

_Of course I have._

_Except to hear your name_

_Or someone's laugh that is the same_

_But I've forgotten you just like I should._

_What a guy, what a fool am I!_

_To think my breaking heart could kid the moon_

_What's in store, should I phone once more?_

_No, it's best that I stick to my tune…_

_I get along without you, very well_

_Of course I do._

_Except perhaps in spring_

_But I should never think of spring_

_For that would surely break my heart in two._

_I Get Along Without You Very Well_

_By Hoagie __Carmichael__, 1939_


	3. Chapter 3 Revelation

Thanks to Kates and Midasgirl for your reviews!  I nearly danced around the computer!  @}~--`--,--`--,---  Roses to you!

The usual disclaimer—All characters are not mine, alas, but the errors are….

**3.  Revelation**

The next morning found Christine at rehearsal again with no sign of her restless night's tormented dreams.  She simply could not bear the agony of indecision and uncertainty any longer.  When the day's rehearsals and blockings were complete, Christine decided make her way around the building to the Rue Scribe entrance and down to Erik's house.  One way or the other, she would have her answer.

Deep underground in his house by the lake, Erik ran grieving hands over the remains of his pipe organ.  Of all the items in his lair, this one had so far proven impossible to mend.  It had taken him days to clear the broken remains of his ruined mahogany furniture, soiled carpets, torn manuscripts, burned books, and ripped clothing from the floors.  It had taken weeks to repair the doors, walls, and electrical wiring, and to clear the pollution from the well.  His house was only just now beginning to resemble what it had been during the first few months he had lived under the Opera.  Wearily, Erik leaned his head against the mantelpiece over the empty hearth.  Fortunately, the mob had not found Christine's room, or the panel in the wall where he had hidden his wealth; the money, gold coins, and gemstones he had bought as insurance against the future.  The funds had allowed him to replace his clothing and a minimum of furniture; had allowed him to rebuild the damaged piano_.  Like me_, he thought_, the scars on its surface do not reflect the music within._  

Erik sighed and made his solitary way to Christine's room, where he had spent nights in black anguish, sitting on the floor beside her bed.  He trailed a hand across the delicate dressing table and lightly touched her silver hairbrush.  The drawers of the chest were still filled with the dainty garments he had taken such pleasure in acquiring for her; the wardrobe still contained her dresses and slippers.  Perhaps it would be better if he found a new home for these items.  She would never return for them, and he could think of no way to deliver the clothing without betraying his secret.

He turned irresolutely, looking about the room.  The small writing table with its smoothly waxed surface gleaming in the lamplight, the lamps themselves with their rosy shades, the wooden sleigh-bed, the counterpane of dull blue, the ivory carpet with its floral patterns of rose, leaf green and blue, all had been chosen just for her.  He had risked going out into the public eye to purchase them and for once had not cared at the shocked expressions on the merchants' faces.

For all that, Christine had spent but a fortnight in this room.  A fortnight in which he had hoped and dreamed, praying for the first time in years that this girl with her angel's voice and angel's face would somehow learn to see beyond the mask and accept him.  She would not love him at first; no, that was too much to ask.  But she would grow to trust him, to not fear him.  He had dreamed of nights spent by the fire, talking and playing chess, reading aloud to each other, and of days spent immersed in music.  In time she would accept his presence in her life, and then in her heart.  She would welcome his gentle touch, and when he finally showed her his face, she would look on it and accept it with the compassion and devotion he fervently believed she was capable of bringing him.

Erik slammed his fist into the wall in a fury of despair.  None of it had happened, of course.  He laughed bitterly, loathing himself for this weakness of indulging in her memories.  _You should know by now that God has a strange sense of humor where you are concerned_.  He had given her his music, made her a public sensation, and offered her his heart.  She had taken his gifts, had run from him.  _And what did you really think she would do, fool? _he thought savagely.  _Your whole sorry life has been one example after another of women running from you._

_ A bell rang quietly in the outer room and his head snapped up.  As silently as a cat Erik stepped from the bedroom and sealed the door shut behind him.  Glancing at the panel, he saw it was the outer alarm bell, from the Rue Scribe entrance.  He crept to the door, extinguishing the candles, waiting in the black silence to see who this new intruder was._

Christine turned the heavy, ornate brass key in the lock with trembling hands and quietly pushed open the gate.  She had chosen well, for no one was around to see her enter the Opera at this hour.  She shut the gate quietly behind her and made her way down the musty passageway to the lake house.

The house on the lake was not truly a house, of course, and one had to know where the entrances were.  Christine stood silently, staring at what once had been a cleverly designed sliding piece of masonry that concealed the front door.  Finally she took a deep breath and pressed the heavy stone just to the right of the now broken slab and nearly fainted with shock when the slab moved outwards from the wall.  As she slid her fingers along the edge of the doorway she felt the recessed ring and tugged on it.  The wall opened soundlessly before her, revealing the very ordinary wooden door.  With shaking hands she opened it and stepped through into darkness of the foyer.

For a long minute Christine stood frozen, cursing inwardly the lack of forethought in bringing with her a candle or lantern.  From the other side of the room, she heard a slight sound and she whirled.  A faint sigh reached her ears as a light flared suddenly, and a candle began to glow, spreading a dim golden pool of illumination.  Standing by the elaborate candelabra was a tall thin man in formal evening dress.  Christine raised her eyes to where his face would be.  The man turned away slightly, causing the light to reflect across a porcelain white mask, and she fainted.

Erik's reflexes were incredibly swift and he caught her before her head struck the ground.  Lifting her effortlessly in his arms, he looked down into her ashen face, feeling his pulse double and slam against his chest.  He carried the limp woman over to the couch along the paneled wall and placed her there gently, arranging her limbs comfortably and straightening her rumpled blue dress.  Erik knelt and stared down at her, a look of intense grief and yearning on his face, and lifted a trembling hand to her pale cheek.  Christine stirred slightly and he withdrew his hand as if from a burning coal.  Rapidly schooling his face into its usual impassive expression, giving no outward indication of the tumult of emotion coursing through him, he rose and walked to the fireplace, feeling her eyes boring into his back.

"Erik?"  She sat up on the couch, a note of uncertainty in her voice.  

He turned, raising an eyebrow.  _Not the reunion you envisioned, my dear?  "To what do I owe this unwarranted invasion of my privacy, Mlle. Daaé?"_

His unearthly beautiful vibrant voice filled the small foyer and Christine flinched as if struck.  He stood still as the marble effigies that decorated the outside of the Opera, the forbidding expression on his face no less frightening than the icily polite tone.  "Erik, I came to see you, to see if you were still alive," she said shakily, not understanding.

Erik shook his head slowly.  "As you can see, I am quite alive."  His voice was harsh with weariness, and he frowned slightly at her.  "What made you think I would be here?"

She twisted her hands together tightly at his harsh tone.  "Meg thought….."

Erik tilted his head, considering.  "Ah, yes, it would be.  Little Giry was always the curious one."

She stared at him in silence for several long seconds, his cold, almost contemptuous gaze boring an icy knot of fear in her chest.  He was terribly thin; his usually elegant clothing hanging from his gaunt frame.  The visible side of his face looked older, more careworn in the candlelight.  Finally he broke the silence.

"Why are you back here at my Opera?"

Christine blinked hard, fighting back the tears that threatened to flow.  "I came back to find you," she whispered.

"You said that," he gestured impatiently.  "I mean, why are you back here in Paris?  You were to be married by now, although you did not do me the courtesy you promised.  You failed to bring me an invitation to your wedding."  He turned away, so that she would not see the turmoil in his eyes.

Christine rose to her feet and crossed the distance between them.  "I don't understand," she said, bewildered.  "Was it a test?"

He dragged his hand through his hair.  "No.  It was a release.  I meant for you to have done with me entirely, no backward glances.  I wanted you to be free of Erik."

"I could never be free of you," she whispered.  "I hear your voice in my dreams."  She took a tentative step toward him and laid a hand on his arm.  

He whirled, distancing himself from her, his breathing ragged.  "You have brought me nothing but anguish these last few months, Christine," he said tiredly.  "Now please go.  I do not want you here any more.  I will not be your second choice, the one you return to after you have cast off your lover."

Her eyes filled with tears.  "That was cruel, Erik.  Raoul was never my lover; he was my friend."

Erik's haunted dark eyes stared at her.  "You left with him.  You were living at his chateau for weeks."  He turned away, his shoulders hunched against the pain.  "What do you know of cruelty, Christine," he said, so softly she almost could not hear him.  "Knowing the only woman you ever loved willingly ran from you, to the arms of another man."  His deep voice was raw with grief.

"You sent me away," she protested.  "You made us leave."

"It was wrong of me, to hope you would stay here in the darkness with a monster," he said quietly.

"You were never a monster; you were my Angel," she whispered.

_"Don't call me that!"  he exploded, and was stricken to see the expression in her eyes.  Damnation!  Would he never do anything but hurt this child?_

He continued on in a calmer voice.  "I am not an angel."  _Though it was nice to have been one for a while, instead of a horror, or a ghost.  "I am only a man, Christine.  To all the world I am now dead.  And I want you to leave, as I said before.  Forget you ever saw me.  Go now.  I believe you know the way out."  Erik turned and walked rapidly away into the darkness._

Christine stood there, tears trickling down her cheeks, staring after him.  Stumbling, numb with a pain she knew she had yet to truly feel, Christine turned and walked slowly back toward the stairwell, an aching void of grief in her chest.

Erik paced the roof of the Opera, welcoming the crisp cold air, hoping it would clear the havoc her visit had wrought upon his mind.  How was it possible to hurt this badly and yet live?  Those beautiful blue eyes, staring accusingly at him, hurt and outrage in her lovely voice.  His fists clenched bloodlessly around the metal edge of a sculptured lyre, welcoming the pain.  He stared unseeingly out over the city, along the _Av. de la Opera_.  From here it glowed softly with the gas lamps of the streets and the candlelight of homes and carriages.  Happy people, rushing about to their homes and families; joyous, laughing people, on their way to dinner or an evening's amusements.  Erik bowed his head to his hands against the raging turmoil in his soul and wished he could weep.

@}~--'--,---'---,----

_One dream in my heart, one love to be living for_

_One love to be living for, this nearly was mine._

_One girl for my dream, one partner in paradise,_

_This promise of paradise, this nearly was mine._

_Close to my heart she came, only to fly away_

_Only to fly as day flies from moonlight.___

_Now, now I'm alone, still dreaming of paradise_

_Still saying that paradise once nearly was mine._

_"This Nearly Was Mine"—1949_

_R. Rodgers and O. Hammerstein II_


	4. Chapter 4 The Underground House

Roses and thanks to everyone who has been reviewing!  You have been so kind to my little story so far—I hope you like how it's progressing.  At this point I still have several chapters completed, and will be uploading them one at a time over the next couple weeks.  Beyond that, I really don't have any idea how to end this….you'll just have to see where it's going and make suggestions then!  Thanks!    @}~--,--'--,--'--,--'--- 

Riene

The usual disclaimers—I don't own any of it, receive no profit off it, don't even get to visit Erik.  However, I do have to deal with all unintentional errors! Chapter 4.  The Underground House 

For days now, Erik had remained secluded in his underground house, fighting his terrible need to see her again.  He paced the perimeter of his self-imposed cage, and then the night-dark halls of the Opera, his mind once again filled with searing memories of their brief time together.  The feel of her in his arms, craved by his disobedient body, the taste and scent of her during that endless kiss, alabaster arms touching him, holding him to her….

_Enough!  Erik slammed his open hand into the wall, hoping the shock of pain would distract his mind.  The knowledge of her presence nearby permeated his existence, and without her, everything else palled.  Unable to compose, unable to immerse himself in his experiments or researches, unable even to read or to sleep, Erik raged inwardly at this incapacitating turmoil, of wanting her as he had never wanted anything else._

Somehow, he had managed to survive the most agonizing, devastating rejection of his life and he could not allow further risk to his sanity by once more subjecting himself to these flames of impossible longing.  He was certain Christine would never again respond to him with anything other than pity.

_Aida entered its initial period of dress rehearsal.  The great background screens and lavish sets were well underway.  Technicians walked the stage, measuring and planning, seamstresses worked late into the night on the dozens of main and hundreds of minor costumes needed.  Odile was recovering quickly; with luck she would be back next week._

Alone in her dressing room, Christine sat at her dressing table, humming slightly to herself, going over the words of Amneris' final song, her nimble fingers quickly removing the pins that held her long hair in place under the costume's headdress.  She gave a satisfied sigh as the final pin came away and her hair fell cascading down her back.  Bending over, she shook her hair free, her fingers massaging her scalp until she straightened.  Blue eyes looked thoughtfully into the mirror as she sat pulling the brush through her tangled curls.  For the last few minutes she had been conscious of a presence behind her wall mirror, watching her in silence.  It was the first time she had been aware of him since her return from the ill-fated trip to his lair.

She rose, stretching muscles tired from holding the postures of Amneris' role, and faced the mirror.  He wouldn't speak?  Then she would.  "Hello, Erik," she said challengingly, raising her chin to her invisible watcher.  There was a brief pause.

 "Your tone was off today," he said coolly.  

Christine's eyes flashed.  "I'm doing the best I can with it.  The part isn't meant for a soprano."

"Your lower register used to be more flexible," Erik retorted with a touch of malice.

Christine stared at the mirror, annoyed.  "Well, back then I had a voice instructor to help me with it," she snapped, and heard his amused chuckle.

"Touché, Mademoiselle.  Until tomorrow," he said lightly.

"You'll be at the rehearsal?"

He smiled derisively, though she could not see him.  "Of course.  It is, after all, my Opera House," he replied mockingly.  "I always attend rehearsals."

Erik stalked down the passageway, irritated.  How had she known of his presence?   Admittedly, her spirited words had impressed him.  Christine was not the fragile child she had been months ago.  He found it vaguely disturbing that he welcomed the change, and looked forward to tomorrow's rehearsal.

Alone in her dressing room once more, Christine smiled faintly to herself.

The next day dawned clear and cold, with a bitter tang of snow in the air.  Christine ate her breakfast and washed hurriedly, anxious to arrive at the Opera early.  Today she would cover Odile's lines and songs as well as her own.  Suzette had been relegated to the chorus, a punishment that did not go unnoted by the remainder of the cast.  Obviously M. André was in no mood to tolerate another temperamental singer.

Full dress rehearsals were still some days off, but the principals were all gathered around the stage, watching each other's performances.  So far, this was an unusually congenial group, with little of the backbiting and scheming that was so typical of the artistic temperament.

The faintest glimmer of white caught her eye from the box to the right of the grand tier.  He was here, after all.  Taking a deep breath, Christine stepped to the blocked line and turned slightly toward him as she sang the first song of Act II.

_It's so strange he doesn't show me  
more affection than he needs,  
almost formal, too respectful  
never takes romantic leads.  
There are times when I imagine  
I'm not always on his mind  
he's not thinking what I'm thinking,  
always half a step behind,  
always half a step behind._

Erik smiled ironically behind the mask.  _So that is the way the game is to be played, my dear?  We shall see.  He settled back into the plush chair, awaiting further developments._

Rehearsal had run late, as it often did.  Christine had stopped by her dressing room and made herself a cup of tea on the gas ring and sat down with her libretto, memorizing lines for the dual roles she was playing for the duration of rehearsal.  Before she knew it, dinnertime had come and gone.  The streets about the Opera were strangely silent when she emerged, fastening her cloak.  Snowflakes swirled around her feet and left wet spangles in her dark hair.  She looked up into the black void overhead, almost frightened by the dizzying sensation of the snowflakes spilling down toward her.

It had been snowing lightly this morning when she had arrived at the theater, and now she vaguely recalled hearing comments throughout the day about the increasing vileness of the weather.  Shaking her head ruefully, Christine began to search for a cab, but after several minutes in the intense evening cold she retreated back inside the building.  It seemed easier to spend the night in her dressing room, as she had often done in the past.  Many of the principal actors, singers, and dancers kept supplies to be prepared for such a contingency.

Christine shifted on the hard narrow dressing room couch, seeking a more comfortable position.  Though it had been a long, difficult day of rehearsal and positioning, sleep had so far eluded her.  She tucked the blanket firmly around her shoulders again and sighed.  There was a song Erik had once sung to her, when she was ill and unable to rest.  The language was completely foreign to her, so she had learned the words by rote.  He had only told her it was a lullaby.  Christine closed her eyes and began to sing it softly to herself.

Down in the house by the lake, Erik shut his eyes in pain.  The soft minor harmonics of the Persian lullaby came hauntingly to his sensitive ears.  Once again he briefly thought about forcing himself to close off the hollow channels he had arranged in order to monitor her dressing room.  He spared the mantle clock a glance and was startled to see the lateness of the hour.  Whatever was Christine doing at the Opera at this time of night?

His concentration thoroughly disrupted and displaced now by worry, Erik swirled his heavy black cloak about his shoulders and walked quietly to the levels above.

She became aware of the silent presence behind her mirror and sat up abruptly, clutching the blanket about her body.

"Erik?" she called softly, questioningly.

He swore silently to himself.  What had he been thinking?  The sight of Christine, her hair tousled from the pillow, wearing only a soft white chemise stirred his numbed heart and set his blood burning again in his veins.  With tremendous effort Erik kept his voice expressionless.

"What are you doing here so late at night?"

Christine settled back against the couch, tucking her small feet back under the rose colored blanket, contrite, and realizing her voice had alerted him to her presence. 

"I'm sorry, Erik.  Did I disturb you?"

He paused.  "I heard you singing," he answered smoothly, "and wondered why you would be sleeping in your dressing room."

Christine shivered.  "You must not have been outside lately.  It's been snowing all day, and now it's become a horrible blizzard.  I couldn't get a cab, and I didn't want to walk back home in this, so….." she indicated the couch.  

"No, no, of course not," Erik said absently, turning over an idea in his mind.

"I'll get back home in the morning," she said, preparing to lie back down again.  "I'm sorry to have bothered you."

Taking a deep breath and bracing a hand on the wall, he plunged ahead.  "Christine, there is no need for you to sleep here.  Your old room is still available to you, should you wish it."  It was the first time he had used her given name since her return, though neither was aware of it.

She sat up hesitantly, tucking a stray curl behind her ear.  "Do you mean that, Erik?" she said uncertainly.  "I don't want to put you to any trouble."

"It is no trouble.  I do not think the Opera would appreciate their prima donna freezing to death in her dressing room," he said lightly.  "Think of the terrible press it would make.  Of course," he added stiffly, "you need not come if you prefer to remain here."

"No," she said softly, unwilling to forego this unexpected overture of courtesy.  "I appreciate your offer.  Thank you, Erik."

He turned away as she rose to don a pale blue ruffled dressing gown and slippers, then activated the mechanism of the mirror and stepped through.  An endless moment passed as they stared silently at each other across the small space.  He indicated the valise she held.  "There is no need to bring that, Christine.  You will find your room as it was before."

She tucked the case back under her couch and wrapped a cloak around her shoulders.  Erik stepped though the mirror again and lit the lantern, unaware of her puzzled glance.  Always before he had taken her arm and she had walked with confidence through the darkness.  They walked in silence down the long dark corridors, lit by the flickering shadows cast by the lantern.  Though the Opera was well illuminated and heated by the gas lines laid throughout it, the tunnels were not.  Erik noticed the air was growing increasingly cold from the force of the storm outside and that Christine was shivering.  Without breaking his stride he removed his own heavy cloak and draped it across her shoulders.  He only nodded at her whispered words of thanks.  

Christine snuggled into the velvety soft fabric, still warm from the heat of his body and retaining his unique scent, a blend of sandalwood, candle smoke, and the herbal soap he used.  To give her his own cloak was a typically thoughtful, attentive gesture on his part, or at least on the part of the enigmatic man she had known last fall.  She felt a prickle of tears behind her eyes.  _Oh Erik, what went wrong?  Can't you see that I still need you so?_

Standing on the rocky prominence, Erik handed her the lantern then knelt down and released the lines that held the small gondola boat to an iron ring set into the rock and drew it closer to shore.  He extended his hand commandingly to Christine, and she laced her own in his.  He helped her down into the boat, as they had done so many times in the past.  Christine moved to the front, balancing his weight in the back, and traced her fingers slowly over the strange and fanciful carvings across the bow.  The path across the lake took only minutes.

The house on the lake extended warm inviting arms to them, giving Christine the familiar sense of coming home, and once inside the foyer she felt herself slightly relax.  Erik hung their cloaks by the entrance and escorted her courteously through the dark, unlit rooms to the door of her old bedchamber.

"You will find your possessions in their places," he said quietly, not meeting her eyes.  Frowning slightly, she entered the room, hearing the faint hiss and pop as Erik entered behind her and walked about, lighting the gas lights and the pillar candle by the bed.

Erik pretended not to see the look of glad welcome in her face as she walked about, touching lovingly the objects of the Louis-Philippe room.  She paused and turned to him.

"Erik?" she asked softly, "why are these things still here?"

For the first time that evening he looked at her directly.  _Do you really need to ask me that? his eyes told her silently, and she blushed, breaking the poignant contact.  He withdrew from the room._

"Breakfast will be at seven.  Good night, Christine."  Erik shut the door quietly behind him.

_She was here again.  Against all possibility, she was here again, and had come with him willingly, trustingly.  He leaned back against her closed door and clenched his fists, trying to slow the pounding of his heart._

Christine stepped into the bathroom and ran hot water into the white marble basin, washing her hands and face.  This room too was unchanged.  Clean towels hung on the hooks, fresh bath salts awaited in the cut glass container.  Thoughtfully, Christine dried her hands.  _What did it mean?_  She returned to the outer room and draped her robe across the foot of the bed, then knelt at the chest of drawers, opening it and extracting a clean nightgown.  She set her slippers aside and walked across the deep ivory carpet.

The room was carefully dusted, the bed neatly made.  Even the clothing in her drawers and wardrobe were fresh and delicately scented from her favorite sachets.  He had prepared these rooms with such care, such attention to detail, and had maintained them even in her absence.

Refusing to consider the implications of these actions, Christine drew back the smooth covers of the bed and slid between the sheets.  From the outer room came the restful, sonorous ticking of the great clock in the vestibule, lulling her into a dreamless sleep.

A light tap on her door awoke Christine the next morning.  Erik's voice called to her and said simply, "Dress warmly.  It is quite cold this day."  She quickly rose, feeling a pleasant tingle of anticipation.  It had been far too many weeks since she had last woken in the underground house.  She rapidly washed and pulled open the doors to the polished wardrobe, choosing a dress of fine Merino wool in a warm ivory color.  Once dressed she pulled the silver brush through her long curls, pinning back the sides.

Last night the house had been dark, disguising the signs of violence and intrusion.  Today Erik had lit the gas lamps along the walls for her.  Christine walked slowly to the dining room, noting the careful repairs on the paneled walls and wondering how he had found the time or materials to work on his damaged home.

Erik was waiting for her at the table, and poured out a cup of tea as she entered.  He seated her courteously and took the chair across from her.  Though the morning air was chill, he wore only a dark green brocade waistcoat over his snowy linen shirt and dark trousers

"Did you sleep well?" he inquired politely.

"Yes, Erik," Christine answered gently.  "You don't have to play the perfect host with me."  

He did not answer her, his masked face unreadable, and she turned away from his intense gaze to look about the room.  This room too showed signs of recent violence, and she could tell where Erik had repaired damage to the wainscoting.  The lovely tapestry that had graced the wall nearest the kitchen was gone.  It had displayed a hunting scene from the Renaissance.  Had it been destroyed or merely stolen, she wondered?  She shook her head sadly.

_Just what role would you have me play? Erik thought tiredly.  _Not the role I chose, or would have chosen otherwise._  He studied her across the rim of the teapot.  He had prepared her favorite tea, not the usual Russian blend he preferred, knowing she found it too strongly flavored and smoky._

Christine realized he was observing her reactions to the changes in his house, and remembered sadly he never ate or drank in her presence, needing to remove the mask in order to do so.  She looked unhappily down at her plate, avoiding his studious gaze.

"There will be no rehearsal today," Erik said abruptly.  "I…overheard the managers' discussion.  The entire city is blanketed under a heavy snowfall, and so is at a standstill."  

Christine nodded understanding, sipping her tea.  Once past his initial deception, Erik had never lied to her, and he was absurdly pleased that even now she still accepted his word without question.

 "If you wish, I will get you a cab and you may return to your home.  Or, you may remain here," he said with seeming indifference.

She smiled at him, sensing an undercurrent of tension at her choice.  "Thank you, Erik, but I'd like to stay here, if I may," she said simply, and saw him relax infinitesimally.  "I've missed this."

He merely shrugged.  "As you wish," she heard him say, but surely for a moment there had been a flicker of something—relief?—in his dark eyes.

Erik leaned back in his chair and his chilly manner grew a trifle warmer.  "Perhaps later you would like to go to the roof of the Opera and look out upon the city.  It is quite breathtaking.  I have also partially restocked my library.  You are welcome to select something to read, to help you pass the time."

After breakfast Erik shut himself away in his study, so Christine walked into the library music room in search of a book.  In this space they had once sat in the deep comfortable armchairs by the fire, reading aloud and talking to each other.  It had been a beautiful room, full of warmth and life, with bookshelves were set deeply into the walls, lined with multitudinous leather-bound volumes.

The battered piano still dominated the center of the room.  She paused by it and touched its marred surface with pity, looking around in dismay.  As opposed to the Spartan neatness of the rest of the underground house, the library was in chaos.  The mob must have destroyed this room as well.  Erik had said he had begun to restock his bookshelves, but….  True, a few books lined the shelves, yet packing cases of books were stacked about the room, their lids wrenched off, sisal spilling out upon the floor.  Christine lifted a book from the nearest crate and sighed.  The library was still a mess.  She returned to her room and bound back her long dark hair, then went to seek a dust cloth.  She had found a task to occupy her morning.

Christine wiped down the shelves and organized his library, finding books on engineering, architecture, medicine, chemistry, history, science, poetry, mythology, and modern literature in the crates.  She placed them on the shelves in the order he had once kept them in, to the best of her recall.  After a moment's thought she went and searched the house as well, knowing Erik was generally careless about returning the volumes to their proper places.  She dragged the crates neatly to one side and removed the packing material and papers from the floor.  Hours later Erik found her there, curled gracefully by a now-empty box.  Standing silently in the shadows, his eyes were soft, watching the play of emotion across her expressive face as she sat absorbed in the travails of the heroine in the novel she read.

He stepped into the room and she looked up with a guilty flush.  "I'm sorry, Erik, I was distracted."  She indicated the novel with a pretty, feminine gesture and he smiled involuntarily.  Christine hung her head in mock chagrin, her deep blue eyes sparkling wickedly up through her lashes at him.  

Erik caught his breath, feeling his heart constrict and beat painfully in his chest.  She was so lovely, so unselfconscious.  He longed to take her in his arms, to lift her and spin her around with joy.  Instead he said mildly, "Christine, you may certainly read any book here you wish.  I chose many of them for you."  With that cryptic sentence, he withdrew.

Thoughtfully, Christine went to her room and placed the slim volume on the table by her bed, then washed the dust from her hands and face.  The graceful golden hands of her tiny porcelain clock let her know it was time for lunch.

The kitchen of his home was utilitarian and barely adequate for the production of a meal.  His indifference to nourishment had presented problems in the past; she would have to see what could be done about luncheon for the two of them.

Alone at his desk in his study, Erik forced his mind to concentrate on the manuscript in front of him.  A soft tap at the door caused him to quickly reassume the mask just as Christine entered with a wooden tray.

"Erik," she said determinedly, "I've made you some lunch."  She placed the tray on a clear space on his desk and he eyed it with disfavor.

"Christine," he began.

"No," she interrupted.  "You need to eat.  You are much too thin."  Christine then tactfully withdrew, shutting the door behind her.

Thoughtfully, he spooned the soup.  This quiet and domestic woman was a side of her he had not seen before.  Reluctantly, Erik removed the mask and laid it aside.  She was quite a good cook, he realized, no doubt due to living on her own for the last several years.  Perhaps his disinterest in the culinary arts was partly to blame for his own limited repertoire.  Erik sighed internally, idly stirring his soup.  Christine had changed in several small ways, treating him with an unusual courtesy and consideration, but there was nothing but honest friendship in her eyes.  Still, he could no more do without her than he could stop breathing.  Perhaps in time he could come to accept her companionship, if he could not have her love.

Without noticing, he ate every bite of food on the tray, then pushed it to one side and returned to his papers.  It sat, a tangible reminder of her presence in his house, just at the edge of his vision.  Exasperated, he collected the tray to return it to the kitchen.

Christine had apparently spent her luncheon by cleaning every surface in the kitchen, and was now disposing of the remains of her own meal.

"Thanks you," he said awkwardly.  "I am sorry you had to eat alone."  She took the wooden tray and for the breath of a heartbeat their eyes met and held, and she read the unspoken apology in them.

"There's nothing to be sorry for, Erik," she said quietly, holding his gaze with her own.  "You may eat with me any time you choose."

_Do you know what you are saying? his black eyes asked hers._

Defiantly, she lifted her chin.  "Yes, I mean it, Erik.  Please don't feel you must eat alone because I am here.  I've disrupted your life enough."

Disbelieving, Erik shook his head.  "No."  He turned and stalked out.

Tears prickled angrily in the back of her eyes.  His face had lost its horror for her weeks ago, and she saw only the passionate eyes of the brilliant man within.  Perhaps her departure with Raoul had hurt him so deeply he no longer trusted her at all.  Shaking her head, she followed him from the room.

He had retreated to the piano, his long deft fingers moving seemingly without conscious will over the smooth ivory and ebony wood keys.  The notes rose from a soft, almost tremulous shimmering introduction to a glorious deep swell of melody.  Christine walked quietly in and sat in an armchair behind him.  So far, he had taken no outward notice of her presence.  Erik's eyes were half shut, his body swaying slightly as he gave himself over to the music.  Her eyes grew soft as she sat almost mesmerized, watching the muscles of his broad shoulders ripple as his long arms moved over the keyboard.  Such incredible talent…  There was no doubt in her mind but that this song was one he had composed himself and she wished again he could receive the acclaim his compositions would surely bring him, if somehow they could be published. 

His elegant hands transitioned easily into a series of arpeggios and softened into one of the Chopin etudes.  Feeling the irresistible pull of the music, Christine rose and came to stand beside him, placing a hand lightly on his piano, wordlessly asking permission to sing.  He nodded briefly at her, betraying no surprise at her presence, and ended the piece.

"What would you like to sing?" he inquired, raising his visible eyebrow.

"Anything you want to play for me, Erik," she said quietly.

He reached up and rifled through the stacks of sheet music and notes that covered the surface of the piano, eventually selecting one of her old vocal exercises.  "You will need to warm up," he said by way of explanation, and she nodded, remembering this particular piece.

Erik walked over and stirred up the fire, to warm the room, listening to her clear voice.  For so long his world had been silent save his own voice and music.  Christine had briefly filled his home with laughter and song, and he had dared hope it might be forever.  When she had left, when the mob had left, he had sat numbly for days, not eating or sleeping, the destruction and unendurable loneliness obliterating his sanity in a well of black despair.  He had prayed desperately that he might end his sorry existence, but in the end had not been able to muster even the energy for that.

Unbelievably, she was here now, standing in his library-cum-music room, singing with him for the first time in months, and Erik vowed not to let her see how her presence affected him.  She did not want his love, would not accept his devotion, and he could not risk losing her again.

He returned to the piano and she raised expectant eyes to him.  "Perhaps, since you are here, we could work on your lower register.  Your performance was most disgraceful the other day," he said scathingly.

Refusing to be provoked, Christine gave him her most dazzling smile and was secretly pleased to see his eyes widen slightly.  Erik inclined his head her direction, but whether in apology or respect she could not tell.  His powerful, elegant hands flowed over the keyboard as she settled her shoulders and lifted her chest in song.

They sang for an hour or more, working through the libretto in order that he might hear more acutely where she needed help.  Pleading thirst as an excuse, Christine left the room and headed for the kitchen.  Erik flexed his hands impatiently and soon Christine reemerged.  She leaned on the end of the piano, watching him play with a soft smile. Realizing she needed a short rest, Erik let himself play snippets of popular songs for her, making her smile.  After a few minutes, though, he raised uncomfortable eyes to her face, feeling the weight of her gaze in an expression he could not immediately identify.

"What is it?" he inquired.

Christine turned her face away, blushing.  "I was just thinking what beautiful hands you have Erik, so long and powerful, so graceful," she said almost inaudibly, fearing to offend him.

The music halted abruptly as Erik sat motionless, then raised his hands to stare at them blankly.  Though his music and his architecture had been praised before, no one had ever commented in a positive way about any part of his person.  He stared at his long tapering fingers.  His hands had been responsible for such pain and so many deaths, had constructed horrors he prayed she would never know of.  How could she find them beautiful?

"You don't believe me, do you?" she said bemusedly, seeing him frown in denial.  Christine walked around the piano and sat beside him on the padded bench, curls soft as cobwebs brushing his shoulder as she leaned forward reaching for his hand.  He could feel the warmth of her body through the pale wool of her ivory colored dress, where their legs touched through the fabric.  Mesmerized at her soft voice and held by her gaze, he could only sit numbly as her smooth white fingers closed over his right hand.  She lifted it in her own, her fingertips stroking the palm, placing her own hand against his, amused at the difference in size.  She did not see him shudder at the delicate sensation of her touch and slowly draw in a shaky breath.

"I can barely span an octave," Christine said, shaking her head in wonderment.  Her touch had caused a quiver of panic in his soul; the longing for her gentle caress and the tension of desire growing rapidly.  Erik abruptly withdrew his hand from hers, needing to distance himself in order to maintain the façade of indifference.  Christine stared after him, hurt by his apparent rejection.

"Please do not touch me," he managed, and then turned to walk away into his study.  She did not see him the remainder of the evening.

Erik shut himself in his study, his emotions and senses aflame.  He gripped the rough edge of a wooden shelf in clenched fists and leaned his head on his hands, desperately trying to control the raging tide of desire coursing through his body.  She had never had any idea of the effect she had on his emotions, on his body; no idea how her innocent contact could send him on this downward spiral of lust and longing.  His flesh demanded her touch, her caress with a desperate craving that could not be slaked.  Slowly, Erik slid down along the wall, sitting on the floor, his hands clenched until they ached, arms wrapped about his head, trying to still the voices in his mind and the flames in his body.

She awoke the next morning to the faint sound of her door opening.  Erik stepped in, attired in one of his customary black suits and bearing a load of logs, his gaze quickly sliding away from where he thought she still slept.  Christine watched from beneath her lowered eyelids as he knelt soundlessly at the small hearth and proceeded to build up her fire, that the room would be warm when she awoke.  When the fire had caught to his satisfaction, he rose and returned to the door, reluctantly facing her once more.  For a moment his gaze softened as he silently watched her sleeping form, before it was replaced with his usual stoic demeanor.  He shut the door quietly behind him.

Christine rose and held her graceful hands toward the fire.  After a moment, she collected her missal and rosary and knelt before the hearth, softly saying the daily office.  Afterwards, she sat with her arms clasped about her knees, staring into the fire, thinking.  

He had rarely touched her during their weeks together, and then only with permission, or by accident, the casual contact of daily life.  His long elegant hands were always cold, whether correcting her fingering on the keyboard or when passing her a book or cup of tea, yet his body was warm enough.  Many times they had stood on the roof of the Opera, looking out across the twilight city, his arm holding her gently, supportively against him that she might not fall.  Now Erik avoided her touch at all costs, even going so far as to shun being in the same room together.  At one time he had looked at her with longing, with passion, and the intensity of his devotion had frightened her.  Now, the wall of stiff courtesy he had taken refuge behind shut her out as effectively as had these walls of stone.

She remembered his harsh words at their first meeting after her return, how he had said she brought him nothing but anguish, and he no longer wanted her in his life.  Why then, had he come to stand behind the mirror of her dressing room again, to watch her rehearsals?

Christine frowned, still hurt by his words, tracing the border of a flower in the thick carpet.  _Erik, do you no longer trust me?_  _What can I do to make you believe I still love you, when you won't let me near?_

A peremptory knock sounded at her door.  "Christine?" 

She sighed and rose to her feet.  "Yes, Erik?"

"Were you planning on coming out today?" he said, with an edge of sarcasm.

Her fingers clenched the belt of her robe tightly.  _Why must he make this so difficult?  "I'll be right out."  She quickly dressed in a simple, lace-trimmed gown of soft smoky blue and twisted her chestnut brown hair up into a chignon._

Heading for his study, Erik shook his head, angry with himself.  Why couldn't he speak to her without hurtful words?  She was certainly entitled to sleep as long as she wished.  Why did his concern always manifest itself as sarcasm?  Irritably, he swung shut the heavy oak door and flung himself into his seat, brooding.

Christine had walked back to the library, determined to complete the task today, as she could not go to morning Mass.  

Erik had returned to his study, leaving the door open this time.  From the library came the sounds of her singing the Liturgy of the Word, her glorious soprano voice and exquisite enunciation rendering the Latin phrases clearly to his ears.  Christine sang the Morning Prayer and began on an apparently random selection of hymns.  Her religion was an integral part of her life, a part he had no understanding of, but she was his Angel, and he was powerless to deny her wishes.  Erik rose from his seat and walked toward the library music room.

She had paused, bending over a new crate of books, hefting a volume in each hand, deciding where to place them when the opening notes of the _Ave_ reached her ears, and Christine stood still, stunned.  Erik, willingly playing religious music?  She had not even heard him enter the room, but automatically lifted her voice with the first words, tears in her eyes.  He knew she had missed the Mass, and in his own deferential way, was providing her at least the musical part of the service.  She should have realized he would have had a familiarity with all forms of composition, even sacred music.  For an hour or more she sang as he played, divided by the distance that separated them across the room.  Erik transitioned to a series of chromatics when he heard her voice begin to grow tired, and Christine finally turned toward him, seeking his face.  

Her shining eyes thanked him silently, his forbidding expression keeping her from saying the words aloud.  Erik nodded stiffly in acknowledgement and turned away, moving back to his study.

Having disposed of the packing crates and settled the library to her satisfaction, Christine returned to her room to collect the novel she had begun the previous day, hoping to finish it before rehearsals started again.  She walked back to the library humming softly to herself.  For once, the door to Erik's study stood open, though he was nowhere to be seen.  Slipping off her shoes, she curled up on the tapestry-covered chair that sat at an angle to his own.  Erik entered the room a few minutes later, carrying two cups of his bizarre Russian tea, one with lemon, and the other with sugar for her.  He placed them carefully on the low table between them and sat down, watching the flames absently.

Impulsively, Christine leaned toward him.  "Thank you for the music earlier, Erik.  It was beautiful—I had no idea you even knew those songs."

He turned his face away, a muscle working in his jaw, the part of his face left exposed by the mask flushed.  When he spoke, his voice was thin and bitter.  "Oh, yes, I too was raised a good Catholic.  I rejected religion years ago, when it became obvious no one believed what they taught and preached, or the words they chanted."  His fist clenched and he pounded it once against the arm of the chair.  "They were all hypocrites, the priest worst of all!  Despite what they said, it seems not everyone is welcome in church."

"That's not true, Erik," she said quietly.

He laughed shortly, without humor.  "Tell that to the parish priest who came to do his duty every week at my house, until he came only once a month, then finally not at all."

Christine sighed.  "You could go to Mass with me."

He made a derisive noise, looking at her balefully.  "I hardly think so."

"You might enjoy the music, at least."

Erik rose and glared blackly into the fire, his face wrathful.  "You would have everyone staring at me?  No!" he hissed.  "If there is a god, he and I parted ways years ago and have ample reason not to meet again."  His voice shook with repressed emotion.  "What kind of loving god would condemn a child to this hellish existence, this nightmarish life?  No, I have _no desire to enter a church again, to 'talk to God.'  He never listened to anything I ever asked, nor ever did anything to help me!"_

Christine rose, tears of hurt and anger in her lovely face.  "Yes, He did, Erik," she said with simple dignity.  "He sent an Angel of Music to me."  A silence fell between them and she turned on her heel, leaving Erik staring after her.  A moment later he heard the door to her bedchamber slam.

@}~--'--,---'---,----

_You go to my head_

_And you linger like a haunting refrain_

_And I find you spinning round in my brain_

_Like the bubbles in a glass of champagne._

_You go to my head_

_Like a sip of sparkling burgundy brew_

_And I find the very mention of you_

_Like the kicker in a julep or two._

_The thrill of the thought_

_That you might give a thought_

_To my plea casts a spell over me_

_Still I say to myself, "Get a hold of yourself_

_Can't you see, that it never can be?"_

_You go to my head_

_With a smile that makes my temperature rise_

_Like a summer with a thousand Julys_

_You intoxicate my soul with your eyes._

_Though I'm certain that this heart of mine_

_Hasn't a ghost of a chance_

_In this crazy romance_

_You go to my head._

_You Go To My Head_

_H. Gillespie and J. F. Coots, 1938_


	5. Chapter 5 Confession

**Chapter 5.****   Confession  Part I**

Erik stared after Christine, nonplussed at this uncharacteristic display of temper on her part.  Suddenly this comfortable room where they had spent so much of their time together was unbearably painful.  He rose and soundlessly followed her, to stand outside her door.  Leaning forward, Erik lightly placed his hand on the carved gothic arches set into the paneled door.  He could detect no sound from within her chamber, and he would be damned if he would enter without her permission.  Irritably, Erik stalked away to the foyer, swirled his cloak around his shoulders and retrieved his hat.  Perhaps the cold air of the outside world would clear his thoughts.  

For an hour or more he stood hidden in the shadows on the vast roof of the Opera, excoriating himself for every harsh word, until the biting air cooled his temper. Christine's return had reclaimed him from the morass of despair and self-hatred in which he had become mired.  She had come to him again and again.  Why was he forcing her to prove her devotion, her caring?  Was he punishing her for crimes of the past—for betrayal and abandonment?

Unwilling to return to his home, and aware his black attire made him unacceptably visible against the snow, Erik chose to leave through the Rue Scribe entrance and walked along the sidewalks in the chill growing shadows of the afternoon.  He was gone for some time, skulking the nearly vacant streets of Paris until he found what he sought, then returned swiftly to his lair.

Christine did not answer his soft tap on her bedroom door, so he cautiously stepped into her bedroom.  The sounds of rushing water in the small private bathroom he had arranged for her met his ears.  _All the better_, he thought, and carefully placed his gift on her dressing table where he knew she would see it and accept it for his apology.  Erik paused a minute, noting the small signs of her presence in his home, in his life; a novel face down on the carpet by the fire, a scattering of hairpins across the dressing table, her little slippers side by side under the edge of the bed.  He smiled very faintly; it was his turn to make an overture of reconciliation.

Christine emerged from the bath, wrapped well in a towel against the possibly chill air of her bedroom.  Stepping through the doorway, a faint blend of scents pulsed toward her; sandalwood overlaid by the sweeter essence of rose.  Erik had been here; she could almost reach out and touch the unseen specter of his presence.

Lying across the mirrored glass tray on her dressing table was a dark red rose bud, so dark a red it was nearly black.  It was winter in Paris, such fragile blossoms were costly.  It was also daylight in Paris; Erik must have braved the public streets and shops to find it for her.  Gently, she lifted the rosebud, stroking the velvety petals and inhaling the sweet scent.  With no need of words, Christine could hear his unspoken plea for forgiveness.  She kissed the upturned tips of the bud, then laid it aside to dress quickly.

Coming out of her room, Christine carried the dark red rose.  She stepped through the open door of his study, seeking him.  The wide desk, set into a niche in the wall was untended; the room was cold and acrid with the scent of the ashes choking the hearth.

Continuing her search, Christine entered the library music room, past the pair of brass griffins that held open the heavy doors with their carved gothic traceries and looked about for her Angel.  Erik was seated in his heavy black chair, long legs stuck out toward the blaze, hands steepled together.  He had not heard her enter and she watched his unguarded face, lined and weary in the low flames of the gaslights.  "Erik?" she whispered tenderly, her voice carrying easily.

He turned uncertainly and Christine gave him her softest look, raising the rose to her face, inhaling its sweet scent.  She wore one of the gowns he had chosen for her of soft blue and her hair hung in loose damp curls down her back.  She was unbearably beautiful.

_Do not be angry with me, his eyes implored, and she smiled.  "I thought it was getting late.  Erik, you did promise to take me up to the roof to see the snow.  Could we go there now, before it gets dark?"_

"You will become chilled," he pointed out, relieved.  "It is very cold outside."

Stubbornly, she shook her head.  "I've haven't seen this much snow since I was but a little girl, and I've never seen snow from the Opera roof."

Erik allowed his face to soften briefly.  "All right.  Put on your outdoor things."

He led her up the narrow staircase passages to the side of the Opera leeward of the wind.  They stepped carefully out along the broad sloped roof line of the Opera house and she immediately slipped, clutching for his hand with a gasp.  Erik caught her firmly.

"Christine," he said, oddly formal, "I am afraid you will fall, for it is rather icy up here.  If you insist upon coming up, you will need to stand close by me."

She tilted her head back and nodded at him, stepping into his embrace.  Slowly, his arms came up around her, and he enveloped her in his heavy cloak as well, remembering how thin her own was.  Erik stood stiffly apart from her.  As the heat from his body slowly warmed through her, Christine relaxed.  He felt her tension ease and to his shock, felt her settle back against him with a faint sigh of contentment.  Slowly, Erik transferred the edges of his cloak to one hand and cautiously moved the other arm around her waist.  Christine let her head rest on his broad shoulder, her temple lying against his masked cheek, and he held very still, savoring the moment.  She was so close he could smell the sweet scent of her herbal bath soap and the faint touch of perfume she must have put on.  They stood together long minutes, suspended from the ordinary world below, and slowly, tentatively, Christine felt his arm tighten about her.  With a soft smile she covered his hand with her own, lacing her fingers through his, holding him to her.  His steady heartbeat resonated against her back; his breath pulsed softly against her cheek.  

Erik felt a glimmer of blind hope flicker among the embers of his dreams, deep in his heart.  Christine leaned against him, trusting him to hold her in safety, her slender fingers absently stroking the back of his own hand. 

The setting sun hung a sullen, angry red-orange in the sky, casting purple shadows on the snow which blanketed the city and frosted the ornate buildings.  The trees etched a tracery of black lace against the nearly white sky.  From the street below came the distant sounds of horses' hooves and the faint tinny sounds of peoples' voices.  Erik rubbed his cheek gently against her hair.  "Are you ready to go back in?"

With a sigh she straightened, reluctantly leaving his arms.  "I suppose so.  It must be nearly dinner time by now."

They walked back to the underground house in silence, each soberly wrapped in their own thoughts.  In one accord they entered the kitchen together, and Erik found she had spent the time of his afternoon absence preparing their evening meal.  With a compliment for the tantalizing smells issuing from the oven he left her to the final preparations.  Erik went into the dining room, clearing the table of its candelabra.  When Christine entered a few minutes later, she found the austere room transformed.  A fine pale open-work linen cloth adorned the mahogany table, graced by thin, nearly-translucent china and fragile crystal.  Gleaming silver caught the light from the ice-white candles he had lit, and she found a bottle of vintage wine cooling in a bucket of snow.  The heavy silver candelabrum had been placed at the far end of the table, which was set for two.

Christine looked up at him, hope and uncertainty in her luminous blue eyes.  "Erik," she breathed, "are you joining me for dinner?"

He nodded stiffly, suddenly uncertain.  "If my presence does not displease you."  

She walked toward him, smiling radiantly.  "Of course not.  Will you help me bring in the dishes from the kitchen?"

After the serving dishes had been placed on the heavy sideboard Erik turned to her.

"My lady?" he said quietly, his dark eyes smiling down at her.  Christine offered him her hand and he took it, barely brushing her fingers with his own as he escorted her to the high-backed mahogany chair and seated her with a flourish.

She watched his graceful movements as he poured them each a glass of dark red wine and sat, partially hidden by the shadows.  Christine picked up her fork and frowned at him.  "Erik?" she questioned softly.

For a long minute he said nothing, sitting paralyzed with trepidation.  Slowly, he lifted shaking hands and slid away the straps that secured the mask to his head.  Christine's eyes met his steadily, betraying no fear or loathing at the sight of his ravaged features.  Erik reached out, gripping her fingers tightly, his soul, and his face, bare before her.


	6. Chapter 5 Confession Part II

Lots of 'thank yous' to Aratlithiel, Black Hunter, Soldier of Darkness, Ash, L'Ange de Folie, Lavender, Fordgirl, Dreamer, Alexis, and Emmy for all of your wonderful reviews! 

 More roses @}~--,--'--,--'-- to Kates and Midasgirl for their extra long reviews—I appreciate it!  I read every comment you write, often several times!

Please read and review—now that the end of Chapter 5 is posted.  I'm still not happy with the middle section of this chapter, (I'll revise it one of these days) but the first and last parts are not too bad, I hope!

Riene

I almost forgot—**The Usual Disclaimer.  The characters contained herein are not mine.  The concept of POTO is not mine.  I receive no profits from this writing endeavor, only the pleasure of trying to have the ending come out the way I think it should.**

As usual, all errors are unfortunately mine.  If anyone out there feels a need to correct my appallingly bad French, please do so!

**Chapter 5   Confession, Part II **

Toward the end of the meal Christine looked up and found him gazing at her gravely.  "Rehearsals will begin again tomorrow, Christine."

She did not ask how he knew; he was Erik, who maintained an awareness of all events at the Opera.  Christine sighed, toying with her dessert spoon.  "Yes, I suppose so," she said absently.  She raised her eyes.  "Will I see you again?"

"If you wish," he replied quietly.  "Erik is yours to do with as you please."

Christine shook her head, dark curls waving across her back..  "No.  Erik, I appreciate your letting me stay with you this weekend, but I don't ever want to be nuisance to you.  I know you have your own life, and that I've disturbed it…rather badly, in the past."

"You could never be that, Christine," Erik said quietly.  "I enjoy your company.  It gets…lonely down here, at times."  _Such an understatement! he thought ironically.  _

Casting about for any reason to maintain their newly wrought connection, Christine seized upon the first one that came to mind.  "Erik, will you still help me with the libretto?  We are so close to performance time now."

Unaccountably disappointed, Erik kept his face from betraying his immediate response.  "Of course, Christine.  I will always do what I can to help you, but I don't think you still need my help with the priestess' part.  Any time you would like to sing, however…" his voice trailed off.

She looked away from his carefully controlled face.  "Thank you," she said awkwardly, and rose to clear the table.

After dinner, they retired to the library music room.  Erik refused to let her sing, saying he did not want any strain upon her voice.  He cast himself down in the tapestry covered chair beside the fire, deliberately lost in his book, holding it in one spread, elegant hand as his other twisted expressively in the air, mirroring his thoughts.  Christine glanced up at him, her face softening.  No matter how much time they spent together, he was so compelling she could at times simply sit and derive enjoyment from watching him.  He moved so silently and gracefully, his long body almost at times infused with a cat-like stealth.  Erik rarely smiled, and his habitually watchful, grave expression haunted her.  Now, he leaned forward.  "Christine," he said absently, "listen to this line."

Erik read to her for some minutes as Christine sat observing him, wishing there was some way she could take away the pain of his past.  Though he seemed to be losing some of his cautious, reserved air around her, in no way was he the Erik of last autumn.  She wondered if he would ever accept that she truly regretted the hurt she had caused him, and if he would in time no longer doubt her love.  With a sigh she rose and came to stand behind his chair.  "Goodnight, Erik," she said softly, touching him gently on the shoulder.

He looked up into her wistful face, then rose soundlessly to face her.  "Goodnight, Christine," he whispered.  For several moments they stood only inches apart, each fighting the same fear and desire to hold the other.  With a faint sigh, Christine turned and walked quietly to her room.

They ate breakfast the next morning in silence.  Erik took her across the lake in the gondola boat and up the dank chill corridors to her dressing room.  Outside the pivoting mirror, Christine turned to him, placing her hand on his arm to detain him one more minute.

"Thank you, Erik," she said softly.  "I enjoyed this weekend."

"As did I," he breathed, looking down at her.  He touched her cheek lightly in farewell, and activated the mechanism for Christine to slip through.  For a long minute he stood, watching as she moved about the room in preparation for the day's rehearsal, then turned and made his solitary way back to the underground house.

Odile rushed forward and enveloped Christine in a hug.  "Thank you so much for covering my part," she cried, brushing kisses against Christine's cheeks.

Christine squeezed her arm in relief.  "I'm so glad you're well and back with us again!  Between the snow and doing two roles, rehearsal has been a nightmare!"

Erik arrived for afternoon rehearsal, his eyes scanning the busy stage for Christine.  The mezzo-soprano Odile had returned, he noted with disappointment.  Christine entered stage left, wearing his black rose pinned above her heart, and he leaned forward, smiling.  She looked relaxed and happy.  The cast quickly assumed their assigned spots and began the rehearsal of Act IV, practicing with the split-level stage.  The principals began the final number, and Erik listened to the orchestra, wincing.  For a moment he debated sending one of his infamous black bordered letters to the management with a scathing criticism of the oboe section, but reluctantly decided against it.  Let the Opera Ghost remain buried.

Slowly, tentatively, they resumed the relationship that had been so badly broken off at the end of the previous fall.  They spent the days apart, Christine in rehearsal, and Erik in his underground demesne.  He replenished his larder in anticipation of evenings together, and spent hours at the piano.  The neat stacks of creamy paper, covered in his elegant script and classical notation grew as Erik once again found music an outlet for his deeply repressed feelings.  On the increasingly rare times Christine came to him in the evenings, to sit quietly by the fire, reading and relaxing, he would sit and talk with her about their respective days, and would play for her if she desired.  Sometimes she spent the night in his house and at other times he would see her safely home.  As the days grew closer to opening night, Erik saw less and less of Christine.

Often the silence of his underground home grew too intense, echoing with the memories of their time together.  Erik seemed to see her everywhere, seemed hear her rich laughter bubbling up over some dryly amusing comment of his own, see her deep blue eyes watching him, her head tipped slightly to one side as she listened intently to his stories, hear her footsteps on the intricate parquetry of the foyer floor.  At these times he was unable to concentrate on his researches, and often found that even the music was unable to flow from his barricaded soul through to his hands.  Hunched against the pain, Erik could only distract his aching body and soul in exhausting physical labor.  For many mornings he explored the narrow passages of the underground river, or began on another round of repairs to his damaged home.  Even these activities were often not enough, causing Erik to force his body through hours of calisthenics, the drills and routines he had often watched the soldiers perform in Persia.  The exercise left him shaking with exhaustion but finally able to sleep.

One afternoon Christine returned to her dressing room to find a musical score lying on the lyre table by the chaise, a dark red rose drooping lush petals above it.  Thumbing through it, Christine realized it was a sacred work by a composer named César Franck, a man she vaguely remembered as an organ professor at the _Conservatoire_.  Wondering if this was a tacit apology from Erik after his outburst the other evening, she chose a song at random, sight singing, hoping he would hear her appreciation of his thoughtfulness.

_Panis angelicus, fit panis hominum._

_Dat panis coelicus, figuris terminum._

_O res mirabilis, manducat Dominum_

_Pauper et servus et humilis._

_Te trina Deitas, unaque, poscimus,_

_Sic nos tu visita sicut te colimus;_

_Per tuas semitas duc nos quo tendimus,_

_Ad lucem quam inhabitus._

Down in his study, Eric shut his eyes, listening to the simple Latin words in her glorious voice.  She had found and acknowledged his gift.

On the night of the premier, Erik arranged to have his Box Five available to him.  Mme. Giry had contrived to leave him a note in the little box on the wall, explaining that though the Opera management had debated leaving his box unsold--in superstitious fear that to sell it would somehow bring them yet another calamity--it was not to be.  Erik had promptly replied with a note instructing her to purchase the box for opening night, and left sufficient francs to cover the fee.

He watched from high above the stage, hidden on the fly gallery, the level where the giant heavy cables ran up and up into darkness, awaiting the commands to lower marvelous painted backdrops and scenery necessary for the lavish spectacle that would delight the audience.  Frantic stagehands rushed about, ascertaining the placement of pops and double checking the lighting.  From this vantage point he could hear the barked orders of the wardrobe mistress, directing her assistants to not trip and step on the hems of the costumes they were laboriously transporting to the dressing rooms of the principals.  Erik slipped away and dropped lightly to the crawlspace beyond the proscenium arch curtains, soundless as a cat.  The Opera Ghost always appeared before a new performance, in his official capacity, of course.  It was tradition.

The audience in stalls and box alike roared their approval at _Aida's_ spectacular debut, shouting and cheering as the cast joined hands and walked downstage to the apron, bowing and smiling.  Admirers thronged the entrance known as the _Cour de l'Administration and the stage doors.  Those wishing to be known in society paraded the staircases, halls, and salons of the Opera.  Backstage, the principals greeted admirers, throwing kisses and flowers._

Christine gathered the roses, gardenias, and other flowers into her arms and inhaled their heady, spicy scents, laughingly exchanging compliments with Helene and Odile.  M. Firmin planted an exuberant kiss on each singer's cheek, then rushed off to heartily pump the arms of the men.  It was jubilant chaos, a gloriously successful opening night.

As soon as it was possible, Christine left the stage area and headed to her dressing room, encountering Meg Giry in the halls.

"Christine!  I have been looking all over for you!  You'll never guess who came here tonight to see you!"

From behind her came a deep warm amused voice.  "How can I see her if you won't let me pass?"  Raoul asked plaintively, smiling.  

Christine handed the armful of flowers to the little dancer and rushed toward her friend, standing on tiptoe to hug him tightly.  "Raoul!  Did you come into Paris just to see me tonight?" she said, her eyes dancing with happiness.

"Alas, but no!" he said.  "I had other business and thought perhaps they might have a spare ticket for an old patron."  At her crestfallen expression he began to laugh.  "Of course I did, silly girl!  How could I not come see you?  You were wonderful!"

Seeing Christine blush, Meg laughed and spoke up.  "She was, wasn't she?  Christine, shall I put these into your dressing room?  I really must be going—Celeste has promised us all a glass of _cassis tonight—on her!"_

"Then you certainly must be going!" Christine said, widening her eyes dramatically.  "The world must be about to end!  Do yes, please, leave the flowers.  I'll find a vase for them somewhere."

Meg scampered off down the hall and Christine turned to Raoul with a smile.  "I'm so glad to see you again, Raoul," she said with sincerity.  They followed Meg on down the corridor and into Christine's dressing room, where the scent of flowers was almost overpowering.  Christine dismissed the little dresser who awaited her and turned to Raoul.  He perched on the end of the chaise; hands clasped between his knees and looked at her seriously.

"How are you, Christine?  There hasn't been a day since you left that I have not thought of you."

Fondly, she smiled at him in the mirror as she sat in front of the pier-glass removing the costume's headpiece.  "I've been fine, Raoul.  The managers welcomed me back, and with Carlotta gone, it has been much more pleasant here."  She began to methodically brush out her hair, leaving it in a cloud of long dark curls over her nearly bare shoulders.   

"I'm glad.  It can't have been easy for you, returning to the Opera."  He stood, and she rose as well, looking into each other's eyes.  "I must be going; I have to meet Philippe."  

Raoul took her hand in his own, his warm blue eyes smiling down at her.  "I really came by to ask if you will join me for dinner tomorrow night.  That is, if you have no other plans?  I'd like to have time with talk to you again, and tonight I must rush."

Christine nodded, her eyes shining.  "I'd like that."

Raoul raised her hand to his lips, kissing her fingers gently.  "I'll send the carriage for you after the performance.  Until then!"

"Until then," she said, smiling back.

Watching the spectacular performance from the hidden shadows of his box, Erik bowed his head in grieving acknowledgement that she belonged down there, in the light and in society, not in the stygian darkness of his world.  Christine smiled gaily, accepting kisses and the fervently extended hands of admirers, laughing with delight.  Even under the heavy stage makeup his acute vision could discern her sparkling eyes and the carnation color of her flushed cheeks.  He rose and slipped silently into the passage behind the column.

The press of people was nearly overwhelming, as all of Parisian society turned out in overdressed glory for the event.   People thronged the corridors, gaslight sparkling off jewelry, showing gleaming white collars and cufflinks, polished bare shoulders, and beaded handbags.  The gaslight gleamed off the light brown hair of a tall, broad-shouldered man, turning it briefly into molten gold, and Erik stiffened in dismay.  Surely that well-dressed figure was familiar?  Quickly, he stepped into the shadows of a niche behind the statue of a muse, watching with narrowed eyes.  _What was he doing here?_

Tilde, the little woman who helped the cast dress, returned and deftly unfastened the myriad hooks of the High Priestess' costume, chattering about the success of the opening night.  She collected the tall headdress and then ducked out the door, calling a cheery good evening.  Christine stepped behind the screens, removing the costume and hanging it carefully.  She dressed rapidly and shrugged on her old pale blue dressing gown over her street clothes, and stepped around the screen, knotting the belt.  Lying across the small table near her chaise-couch was a beautiful rosebud, so dark a red it was nearly black.  Smiling, Christine picked it up tenderly and carried it over to the table.

The strangely acute sixth sense she had developed made her freeze suddenly.  "Erik?" she asked.

From behind the mirror came a chill silence.  "Raoul again?" he said, his icy beautiful voice mingling disbelief and heartbreak.

Christine walked over to the mirror, placing her hand on its cool surface beseechingly.  "Erik, he was only here as a friend; he wanted to see how I was faring.  Please don't be angry.  Truly, nothing happened."

"Nothing yet.  You made plans to meet him for dinner," he hissed, aware he was hurting her.

Christine dropped her hand, her eyes tired and sad.  "Erik," she said quietly, "you must stop this.  I have told you over and over again that Raoul is an old friend.  I do not love him, but I do care for him.  Surely I may make what dinner plans I choose."

_Your jealousy nearly cost you Christine and your life both, fool.  When will you learn you cannot control her—and when will you learn to control yourself around her?  Erik took a deep breath and passed his hand across his face._

"Yes, of course, Christine.  I am sorry.  You are certainly free to choose your own companions," he said quietly.

She blinked back tears at the resigned, bitter tone of his voice.  "Erik, she said softly, "I have no plans for tonight.  I could have gone with the others, but I was hoping a certain friend who lives nearby would ask me to dine with him.  I prefer his dining room, and his company, tonight."

For the space of a heartbeat, there was no answer, and then the mirror opened soundlessly.  "Charon awaits," he said simply, holding open the mirror.

The quiet warmth and comfort of the underground house was especially soothing tonight, after weeks of intense rehearsal and hours of performance. Christine went directly to the library music room and dropped wearily into the smaller, tapestry-covered carved chair, holding her hands toward the low fire.  Erik walked over to it and knelt down, adding another log.  She smiled tiredly at him.  "Do you mind very much if we forego dinner, Erik?  I'm so tired and stiff I can't think, and I wouldn't be a very good companion for you tonight."

Erik shook his head ruefully, standing.  "Christine," he said softly, "you are never here merely to amuse me, but you do need to eat something.  Rest, and I will see what can be done."  He left her and walked swiftly toward the kitchen, returning soon with a tray.  

Concerned, he sat with her by the fire as she ate, observing the shadows under her eyes and the slightly drawn look to her face.  She smiled faintly up at him.  "You know, you haven't played for me on your violin since I came back to Paris.  Play something for me tonight, Erik, please?"

"Of course, if that is your wish," he said simply and removed the violin from its case on the shelf.  He lifted it to his chin, testing the purity of the tones, adjusting the tuning pegs until the strings rang with his expectation of perfection.  Christine shut her eyes, her fingertips waving softly with the gentle tune as he moved the bow over the fine old instrument.  He had just finished the Persian lullaby when he noticed she was asleep, her face looking pale and wan in the firelight.  Erik rose slowly from the edge of his seat and replaced the violin in its case, then knelt before her, grateful he could look on her in unseen adoration.

"Oh, Christine," he whispered, "I do love you so.  Have you any idea just how dear you are to me?"  His trembling fingers carefully brushed her dark hair out of her face.  With a sigh, Erik stood and gently lifted her in his arms.  Christine woke enough to realize what he was doing, and leaned her cheek against his chest, one hand coming up around his neck trustingly.

"I'm taking you to your bed, mon ange," he murmured softly, and she nodded sleepily.  Effortlessly, Erik carried Christine to her bedchamber and gently placed her on the turned back sheets.  Greatly daring, for he knew she was asleep, he leaned down and brushed his scarred lips across her forehead.

"Goodnight, my love," he murmured.  With one last, lingering look, he turned out the gaslights and quietly closed her door.  

When Erik awoke the next morning it was to the sound of Christine tapping at the door to his bedchamber.  Since the time he had first showed her this room, she had steadfastly refused to enter here, and he assumed that either the grand organ or the black and silver casket held painful memories for her.  He rose quickly, donning his mask.

"Erik?  Do get up; I've fixed us some breakfast."

He called out an acknowledgement then turned away, to quickly wash and dress.

The aroma of fresh muffins and tea greeted him when he arrived in the dining room.  Erik touched her fingers lightly in greeting, seating himself as she poured out their tea.  Christine wore a dressing gown of a soft rose color over her nightgown and he raised an eyebrow at her choice of attire.  

Christine blushed.  "Do you mind very much, Erik?  I can go change if it bothers you."

Pleased she felt this degree of comfort in his presence but temporarily unable to speak, Erik shook his head, refusing to let his expression betray his feelings.  She was so lovely, her dark hair falling in a welter of long curls down her back, her cheeks flushed from the heat of the kitchen.  

"I'm sure you were hungry.  You ate almost nothing last night," he said smoothly, finding his voice.

Christine rotated her head in a circle, wincing.  "I didn't feel like getting dressed yet, and I want to take a bath.  My neck is so stiff this morning—that wretched headdress is far heavier than it looks.  I certainly hope the ancient priestesses didn't have to wear ones like that!"

"No doubt they wore something even more uncomfortable," Erik said dryly and saw her flickering smile in response.  He gave in to his desire to touch her and moved to stand behind her chair.  "Christine—may I?  I think I can help."

She nodded surprised, and he flexed his long fingers, trying to warm them.  "Lean forward, then; rest your head on your arms," he instructed.

Long spatulate fingers gently touched her shoulders and hovered there a minute on the soft fabric as his ingrained caution forced Erik to wait briefly, seeing if she would recoil from his touch, but Christine shut her eyes and waited trustingly.  Slowly, his powerful hands began to gently knead her stiff muscles, working their way up to her neck and on down to the middle of her back, out across her tight shoulders.  Christine sighed in bliss, limp and pliant under his deft fingers as they smoothed away her tension.

"Erik, that feels wonderful.  Wherever did you learn to do this?" she murmured.

He frowned but answered lightly, "Did I never tell you about the time I spent in Persia?"

"You did," she answered vaguely, "but you didn't say you were the chief masseur."

Smiling, he completed his massage, leaving his hands on her shoulders as she slowly sat up.  "I'm afraid that wasn't my job, but I certainly observed the slaves perform this service often enough to know how the procedure was done.  I am pleased to know I was an observant enough pupil."

She reached up, covering one of his hands with her own.  "You've never done an inadequate job of anything in your life, Erik, at least, not as long as I've known you," she said, turning to smile up at him.

Erik froze.  Christine's brilliant smile and loving expression went through him like a rapier.  Without conscious thought, his hands gently touched the ivory skin of her neck with a tender lover's caress, his fingertips moving around to stroke softly along her collarbone.

Christine drew in a deep, shaking breath, her body suddenly tingling, alive with an awareness she had not felt since their last, their only kiss.  She knew in a flash of woman's knowledge she should never have come out in her dressing gown.  Erik's eyes were dark with unguarded desire, and she knew her own expression must mirror his.  Slowly, she stood, gripping his hand and facing him.

He looked away swiftly, unable to meet her eyes, a muscle twitching in his set jaw.  She stepped closer to him.  "Erik?" she questioned softly.  

_Oh, God, she is so lovely and you were such a fool to have touched her, he thought bleakly.  Erik backed away, his expression now unreadable behind the mask, then he turned and walked stiffly away, retreating to the music room to distance himself from the overwhelming feeling that if she touched him again there would be no turning back.  Christine followed._

For the first time it occurred to her that perhaps his unwillingness to hold her closely stemmed not from distaste or anger, but from desire.  Erik stood with his back to her, one hand gripping the carved edge of the mantle.  She glanced at him, seeing the heightened flush of color along his exposed high cheekbone, the tight posture of his elegant body, and the clenched fist half-hidden against his leg as he fought to not to betray the emotional and physical turmoil inside him.  The newfound knowledge moved over her in a slow burning wave.

"Erik?" she whispered.

He refused to look over at her, shamed she should see him like this, suffering the black demons of desire.  He drew a shuddering breath as she slowly crossed the Persian carpet toward him, a look on her face he never thought to see.  Christine took his hand in her own, holding it tightly, then raised her other hand to caress the cheek left exposed by the mask.  Erik jerked back, shutting his eyes at the exquisite sensation and she saw his lips tremble.  Christine cupped his face in her warm hand and gently forced him to turn toward her.

"Erik, do you still love me?" she whispered.

His tense shoulders dropped as he shut his eyes in pain.  "How can you even ask me that, Christine?  I told you once I would gladly die for you.  Nothing has changed."

She stared into the tormented dark eyes, and saw he already regretted the honest exposure of his feelings.  

"Oh, my love, what a fool I have been," she murmured, and slid her hand around the back of his neck, stroking her fingers through his short soft dark hair.  Erik's arms tightened convulsively around her body as she pulled his head down to meet his lips.  He kissed her back with the fervent, desperate passion of hopelessness, his arms locking her to him, before he thrust her away and stalked to the black piano, bracing his arms upon the instrument and bowing his head, his shoulders quivering with the effort of control.  

Christine followed him, sliding her arms around his taut waist and laying her cheek on the smooth linen along his broad back, feeling the shudders that racked his lean body.  

"Erik," she said softly, "Don't you know I love you?  Won't you please look at me?"

He twisted under her arms, lithe and agile as a cat, stepping away and turning to stare at her, a world of pain and disbelief in his haunted dark eyes.

"Christine, please don't do this to me," he said raggedly.  "Don't torment me like this.  I don't have the strength to bear it any more."

Her face softened in understanding.  Had he been hurt so often and so badly that he could not now see the truth of the love offered in front of him?  In his haze of misery, Erik misread the compassion on her face.

His face tightened.  "I don't want your pity, Christine!" he snapped bitterly, turning away from her, unable to bear the weight of her gaze.

"Erik," she said softly from behind him, "I love you.  Don't push me away like you did the last time."

He stared at her, disbelief and anguish warring on his face.  Christine slowly walked over, reaching out and sliding her hand up his arm, looking deeply into his tormented eyes.  She caught his hand and cradled it against her soft cheek, kissing his palm.  Erik shuddered, turning his face away and withdrawing deeply into himself, desperate to avoid further humiliation.

"What must I do to convince you?" she said helplessly.  "I love you, Erik.  All of you."  The pain in his eyes hurt her intensely and she moved closer to him, laying her head down on his shoulder and holding him gently.  For a long moment he stood frozen, his rigid posture telegraphing his fear.  Slowly, so slowly, his arms came up and hesitantly touched her shoulders, then Erik grasped her arms and held her away from him.

"Do you mean this?" he demanded harshly, his eyes blazing.  

Her blue eyes were honest and clear.  "Yes, my love.  I mean it.  I love you; I want to stay with you."

Erik crushed her to his chest, sudden wild hope springing up in his heart.  He tipped her chin up toward him and she met his lips with her own.  Oh, the soft gentle affection, the dark sensual passion of that kiss….  He felt his heartbeat double, then treble as her arms closed about his neck, caressing his hair.  For a long minute she clung to him, feeling the heat from his body as he caressed her.  As though she weighed nothing at all, Erik lifted Christine in his arms and felt her snuggle against him trustingly.  Burying his face in her silky hair, he carried her over to the couch by the fire.  "I don't know what I shall do if you don't mean this," he whispered brokenly.  "I have loved you for so long; I never dared dream this could come to be." 

Gentle fingers stroked his shoulder and she smiled lovingly down into his eyes.  "'Past the point of no return', Erik.  I decided long ago I could not live without you, but I thought you had stopped caring for me."

"How could you think that," he murmured against her throat, and she gasped as his lips trailed fire across her skin.  

Passionate though his embrace was, she could still feel the tightly-leashed fear inside him.  Christine lifted his face toward hers, kissing him gently, trying to communicate without words her own feelings.

But it was Erik who broke the contact, pressing her face to his shoulder, his breathing ragged as he fought for control.

"What's wrong?" she whispered, feeling her own pulse pounding.

He shook his head, his beautiful voice hoarse and trembling.  "I cannot do this, Christine.  I cannot touch you like this."  He lifted a shaking hand to her face.  "I want you so much, but this isn't right.  You deserve so much more than a monster like me."

Christine stared down at him, shocked and suddenly furious.  She slid off his lap and walked to the fireplace, trying to control her temper.  "For the last time, Erik, I don't care about your face.  I care about you.  I love your beautiful passionate soul.  I love the gentle way you touch me and that you're always there for me.  I love your music and your stories, and all the time we've spent here together."  She started to cry, and grasped the edge of the mantle, leaning her forehead on her hands, choking back the sobs.

Erik stood irresolute, watching her, the words not registering.  He came to stand beside her and hesitantly, gently took her into his arms.  "Christine, please stop crying.  I can't bear it when you cry," he said helplessly.  "Don't you understand?  I only want what's best for you.  You should be up there right now, with your friends, celebrating last night's success in the light, not down here in the darkness, crying."

She twisted away from him and he released her.  "You're the one who doesn't understand, Erik.  I'm where I want to be—with you."

A hundred other replies he could make flew about his mind as she stood there, tears welling in her dark blue eyes, spots of high color on her white face.  Christine walked slowly toward him, as if every step was weighted down by chains, grieved at the patent disbelief in his eyes.  She reached out and seized his face, tearing away the mask and he flinched violently.  Christine placed her hand on his chest.  "It's what is in your heart that matters to me, Erik!  Yes, you're scarred.  You're horribly disfigured.  When will you understand that I don't care?"  she said, her voice low and throbbing with emotion.  "I don't care at all," she continued brokenly, pulling his head down again to kiss his lips, to kiss the rough skin of his ravaged face.

Erik grasped her wrists, holding her away from him.  "Mon Dieu," he breathed, looking down at her.  "I think you mean it."  He released her and sat heavily down on the couch, with none of his usual grace.  Christine followed him and cautiously sat beside her dark angel.  Gently, almost fearfully, he wrapped an arm about her shoulders and drew her close.

Christine nestled against him, breathing in his warm scent, limp with relief.  "Mon ange, you do believe me?"

She sensed Erik's faint, answering smile.  "I do, my love.  What choice do I have, when you tell me so fiercely?"  His voice became serious.  "But Christine, I don't know what to say.  I never thought this out, never believed there would come a time when I would have to ask 'what now?'  I cannot ask you to marry me; there is no place where we can go where the world will not see me as a monster, and I will not ask you to spend your life down here in the darkness."

Christine laced her fingers with his.  "I don't know, Erik.  Somehow we'll work this out.  I just want to be with you, to love you.  Will you let me?" she asked shyly.

Erik carefully removed his arm from her shoulders and rose, quieting her protest with a gentle look.  He walked into his study and emerged a minute later, holding a small, black velvet covered box in his hand.  Christine sat up, swinging both feet to the floor, her midnight blue eyes fastened on his face.  She was dreadfully pale.  Erik knelt reverently before her, resting his hands on her knees.  

"Mon ange, I gave this to you once before," he began, but Christine interrupted him.

"…and I gave it back.  Oh, Erik, can you ever forgive me?" she said tearfully.

He smiled at her, a look of such tender passion and longing she had to blink back the tears.  "Christine, I forgave you a long time ago.  I was the fool; I pushed you too far, too quickly.  Will you accept this ring now?"  His words were gentle, but she read in his face his continuing anger at himself, and the fear that somehow she would still reject his offering, reject him, that he was steeling himself now for this ultimate humiliation.

Christine covered his trembling fingers with her own.  "Yes, Erik," she said softly, through her tears.  "I will gladly accept your ring."  

Wonderingly, he looked deeply into her eyes and saw only her love for him there.  Erik drew in his breath sharply, and slowly withdrew his hands from hers.  Carefully, as though the box were the most fragile porcelain, he opened it and removed the delicate, brushed gold ring with its single flawless deep blue sapphire.

"You are certain?" he questioned again, unable to believe, and she could only nod, incapable of speaking past the lump in her throat.  With infinite tenderness Erik lifted her left hand and gently slid the ring on her finger, kissing her fingertips.  

"I love you," Christine whispered, falling forward into his arms.  She knelt beside him on the floor, and held her dark angel for a long time.

@}~--'--,---'---,----

_It's unbelievable the way you thrill me every time we meet,_

_Unbelievable the way my heart begins to beat, to beat._

_In my wildest dreams, I never dreamt that this could be,_

_That someone like you could believe in me!_

_It's unbelievable this miracle each time our arms entwine,_

_Inconceivable that lips like yours could ever cling to mine._

_Never was a love so very….how shall I say?_

_Extra extra ordinary, this world becomes a place so merry_

_It's unbelievable that you could be mine!_

_Unbelievable_

_J. Livingston, __I.__ Gordon,  1954_

A/N—It's not over yet!  There's still more to come.  Haven't you ever wondered what happens after the end of the fairy tale?

--Riene


	7. Chapter 6 Solutions

Many thanks to those who generously pointed out my French errors (Midasgirl, Kates, L'Ange de Folie)—I think I have them all corrected now, with a reload of the last chapter, but if you find anything else, please do let me know.  Thanks for your reviews; they make my nights spent at the computer worthwhile!

Soldier of Darkness, Lavender, Dreamer—thank you for your enthusiastic reviews!

And to everyone—thank you for the private emails!

To FanFiction.Net—Yay!—you are back up and running!

I keep forgetting the put in **The Usual Disclaimer.  The characters in this story are not mine, and alas, they never will be.  I receive only the pleasure of changing the ending, and the chore of correcting my errors.**

**6.  Solutions**

Adele Giry sat silently at her desk, thoughts whirling around in her head, still thinking about the implications of her last visitor's eloquent words.  Erik had stood before her, his face bearing an expression she found both moving and disturbing.  He had paced her office, his eyes glowing behind the mask.  Christine had consented to be his wife, he had said, without coercion, without fear, openly, and honestly.  He was both dumfounded and exhilarated, his beautiful, expressive hands and rich voice expressing his wonderment at this unexpected development.  He had wanted his oldest friend in Paris to know.

Stunned, Mme. Giry had offered her congratulations and Erik had thanked her, amazement still in his voice.  Then he was gone in a swirl of opera cloak, back into whatever shadows he had emerged from.

Erik and Christine were meant for each other; he had deeply loved the opera singer with a near-hopeless passion for two years now.  She brightened his dark world and civilized his inhuman behavior.  Erik's maturity and adoration brought security and strength to the young woman.  Christine was still such an innocent child, though, in many ways.  

Adele Giry stood up, resolutely.  She had no desire to hurt either her friend or her daughter's friend, but neither Erik nor Christine had likely given thought to any practical eventualities of their future.  She gathered her heavy rod and went in search of Christine.

Awaiting the hairdresser, Christine was resting on the little swan-backed chaise in her dressing room when the imperious rap of a heavy cane sounded outside her door.  She sat up quickly, smoothing her dress and called out a welcome.  Mme. Giry stepped in, her somber dark figure seeming out of place in the white, gold and green room. 

"Mme Giry!  Please, come in and sit down."  Inclining her head in acknowledgement, the other woman did so, turning to face Christine, who waited politely for the older women to speak first.

Adele's eyes softened as she looked over at Christine.  She could well understand Erik's continuing love for this young woman, despite the ordeals and torment he had gone through on her behalf.  The singer sat demurely on the chaise, wearing a white dressing gown over her costume, her long dark curls tumbling down to a tiny waist.  Expressive blue eyes widened and a wild-rose blush rose on her ivory skin as Christine endured the ballet mistress' scrutiny.  Adele leaned forward and touched the engagement ring.

"I've had a visitor, coming to tell me of recent events that have transpired in our Opera," she said dryly, without preamble, and saw Christine blush again.  The young singer lowered suddenly bright eyes and raised the ring to her cheek lovingly.

"Yes," she answered softly.  "Just last night.  Erik still wants me to marry him."

Adele Giry smiled.  "Of course he does, child.  He loves you more than you can know."  She paused, then said gently, "Christine, do you have any family?  Any woman you may speak with?"  Christine shook her dark head, uncertain what her former teacher was meaning.  "Did your father or your adoptive mother ever discuss with you how it is, between a man and a woman, a husband and wife?"

Christine blushed again and said almost inaudibly, "No, but I've heard the other girls in the _corps talk about their lovers."_

The ballet mistress sighed faintly, relieved.  "Then you do know at least a bit."  She sat back on the graceful chair.  "Christine, have you truly thought this out?  I have known Erik many years.  He is an incredibly, brilliant, talented man, but Christine, he has very little experience with love and trust.  This will not be an easy, commonplace marriage, and it is only his own proud sense of honor that has kept you safe so far.  He will not want to be your husband in….name only."

A memory of his hands stroking her back and his lips against her throat washed over her, assaulting her senses, and Christine ducked her head.  "I know that," she whispered.

Adele Giry noted her expression wryly.  Obviously this was not news to Christine, who clearly didn't mind.  "I'm sorry I had to ask, child.  I was….merely concerned for you."  Mme. Giry fastened her dark eyes on the young woman.  "How will you live?  Where will you go?  What if you become with child?  You cannot continue to live underground at this Opera."

Flushing, Christine rose, trailing a hand along the molding trim on the dressing room wall.  "I know that, but I don't know what we can do, Mme. Giry.  Erik is so talented, he could surely make a living as a composer or musician, and I know he was once an architect."  She shook her head in wonderment.  "He has a room full of electrical apparatus and chemistry equipment.  There are so many things he could do, if only…." Her quiet voice fell silent.

"Would you want to continue your career?" Adele inquired, thinking.

"Oh yes, we've both worked so hard for this.  Erik takes great pride in my voice; he was my teacher for many months, and still helps me now," Christine said simply.  "But Mme. Giry, why do you ask?"

The older woman was silent for a long time.  "Has Erik ever told you how we met?  No, of course he would not," she murmured, seeing Christine's perplexed look.  Adele Giry looked directly at Christine.  "I would prefer Meg not learn of this story, do you understand?"

Christine swallowed and nodded, feeling the tension in her visitor.  "Many years ago, I was married to Meg's father.  I too had been a dancer, well-trained and successful.  I threw aside my career to marry a man who said he loved me."  She laughed harshly.  "It became apparent quickly that love was not what he wanted.  I became pregnant, and he soon found 'comfort' in the arms of other women.  When I tried to leave him, he beat me so badly I thought I would lose the baby.  Perhaps that is what he meant all along to happen," she added musingly, unaware of Christine's sickened expression.  "I had little Meg, and for a while things were…well, not pleasant, but at least tolerable.  Then he began to beat me again.  I took Meg and fled to Paris."  

She sat silently, a somber, proud woman.  Christine waited in silence for her to continue, sensing she would be rebuffed if she interrupted.  "I was working as a seamstress, and Meg was being cared for by a woman who watched children near our lodgings.  Outside of the Opera, one night, I was returning home to our rooms.  Suddenly, there was my husband.  Louis had tracked me down to Paris and had threatened the lady I lodged with until she revealed my employer.  He was waiting for me.  I struggled against him, but he was so strong," she said hopelessly, even though the events had taken place many years before.  "He struck me repeatedly, tearing at my clothing.  I screamed for help, but the streets were deserted.  He laughed."  Adele Giry shivered in the warm room.  "He had been drinking.  Then abruptly, he was gone.  I sat up in the street, from where he had shoved me.  There was a tall, well-dressed man holding him effortlessly in the air.  I can still hear his voice."  She stared off into space, reliving those painful memories.

_The voice was beautiful, rich and cultured, and low with deadly fury.  "You will cease hurting this woman.  What harm has she done you, that you should beat her in the streets outside my Opera?"_

_The man laughed evilly.  "This bitch?  She's run off, probably whoring on the streets for all I know or care, but she'll come back home with me.  She'll not give it out for free on the streets of __Paris_!"  In loathing and horror, Adele frantically crawled backwards, bracing her back against the wall of a building and watching with frightened eyes.__

_The stranger lifted the man in the air again.  He struggled futilely against the incredible strength of the stranger and succeeded in kicking the man in the abdomen.  The black-garbed stranger dropped him, and Louis pulled out a knife.  The stranger tensed suddenly, and began circling him like a great deadly hunting cat, watching with glittering eyes.  Louis rushed forward and the two began to struggle.  In the process, the stranger's hat was knocked off, revealing a skull-like mask that covered half of his stoic face.  His eyes were black and icy.  _

_"You are a demon!" Louis hissed._

_"Then I shall be happy to assist you into Hell." _

_ With those words, Louis rushed forward again.  The fight was over very quickly.  Somehow in the ensuing struggle, the terrifying stranger managed to trip her husband, who fell upon his own knife._

_The stranger bent over the bleeding man dispassionately.  "It is a mortal wound.  What do you want done with him?"_

_Adele Giry was shivering violently from shock and the cold.  "I don't care, Monsieur.  He has tried to kill me many times, and has threatened our daughter.  He is of no consequence to me anymore."_

_The tall man nodded, then reached down and with casual violence, gave Louis' neck a quick hard twist, effortlessly severing the spinal cord and breaking his neck.  She could still hear the horrible sound of the rending bones._

_The masked man looked up, inhumanly calm.  "He will not suffer needlessly this way," he said in quiet explanation.  He rose and collected his hat, pulling it low over his face and turned to go._

_Adele Giry scrambled to her feet.  "Wait, Monsieur.  You have saved my life this evening.  I....thank you."_

_He only nodded.  "Do you need anything else, Madame?  I will escort you to your lodgings, if you wish," he said reluctantly._

_She stood, silent and debating.  This tall, masked stranger, with his carefully polite, cultured words, had casually killed a man to save her life.  She could not just let him drift away.  "Yes, thank you.  It's very dark and foggy.  My poor little daughter will be terrified something has happened to me."_

_He walked her silently through the deserted back streets to her lodgings as Adele Giry told him in simple, emotionless words of the events preceding this evening._

_Outside her flat, the silent stranger turned to her.  "You say you are a dancer?" he said thoughtfully.  At her assent, he continued.  "The Opera is in need of both a talented seamstress and of quality dancers.  Perhaps you should seek employment there."_

Adele Giry completed her story tiredly.  "I did come here, and I still believe that Erik was somehow instrumental in helping me to ascend to the position I now hold.  He and I have met often, over the years, when he has been in need of someone to go out among the people, to shop for him, or deliver messages.  I have tried to be his friend, though he is still such a very private man.  He has told me very little of his life before the Opera."  She reached out to touch Christine's shoulder gently.  "Deep inside, he is a good man, and he has led a very lonely, bitter life.  Be kind to him, Christine.  The only thing I have ever known Erik to fear is losing you.  I'm glad he's finally found someone to care for; someone who also will care for him."

Christine blinked back tears and hugged the ballet mistress tightly.  "Thank you, Mme. Giry."

The older woman stood, her bearing regal and erect once more.  "I am willing to help you and your Erik, child, in any way I can.  I will think what may be done."

At Christine's nod, she turned to go.  Christine followed her impulsively, placing a hand on the ballet mistress' arm.  "I'll not say a word, about what you have told me."  

In the doorway, Adele Giry turned, and for a moment her proud face softened.  "No, child, I know you won't.  You have learned a hard lesson about betrayal once already.  I must go.  My _petite rats_ will be waiting for me."

If possible, the Opera was even more filled with people on this second night of performance.  Christine took her bows and applause with the cast, then made her apologies and quickly headed for the dressing rooms.

Raoul was waiting for Christine outside her dressing room door.  She smiled radiantly up at him, still flushed with the success of the night.

"I'll just be a minute, Raoul.  I must get out of this costume and makeup!" she said.  

He bowed toward her.  "Do not tarry overly long!" he said, handing her a single white gardenia.

True to her word, it was less than fifteen minutes until she emerged into the corridor with all traces of the High Priestess removed, and his floral offering pinned to her dress.

Raoul bowed gallantly over her gloved hand.  "Christine, you look lovely tonight!"  He offered her his arm and she took it.  Laughing, they ducked out a side entrance, avoiding the crowds, and into his carriage.

_Le Jardin had several intimate rooms painted with gay floral scenes, and Christine was pleased to discover Raoul had engaged one of them.  After a brief consultation with the _serveur_, he ordered wine and a light meal for them both.  Raoul leaned back in his chair, relaxed, observing the woman he had once thought to wed.  She was wearing her hair in a new style, upswept from her face and twisted into a knot atop her head, with curling tendrils escaping.  The simple dress of dusky plum satin set off her slender figure and deepened her eyes to a dark blue.  _

As they talked Christine idly turned her crystal wineglass in her slender fingers, swirling the pale liquid in circles.  Raoul's eyes narrowed slightly.  Though it had only been a little more than two months, a familiar ring of gold with a solitaire sapphire flanked by two baguette diamonds adorned her left hand.

"Are you happy, Christine?" he asked abruptly.  "You're back at the Opera, singing in a highly successful production.  I read that you are scheduled to perform in two spring concerts.  Unless my eyes deceive me, that is a new dress you have on tonight, and you have a smile on your face."

Christine looked up at her old friend and playmate, seeing the forced lightness in his eyes.  "Yes, Raoul, I'm happy," she said gently.  "I have no right to be, after all of the people I've hurt, but I'm doing well."

His planned conversation was interrupted by the arrival of their meal.  Raoul deliberately kept the conversation amiable; asking her about the other cast members and relating a humorous story about a minor accident that had happened to his brother Philippe.  Christine's face was relaxed and unguarded, the laughter bringing a sparkle to her eyes and a blush of lovely color to her damask cheeks.  For a minute he thought longingly of taking her in his arms again, and begging her to return to the de Chagny estate, but wisely said nothing.

Christine watched him with sudden sadness above the rim of her wine glass.  For a moment, Raoul's heart showed only too clearly in his expression.  She reached over unthinkingly with her left hand to clasp his fingers, trying to wordlessly convey how much he still meant to her, even if they could not be together.

Raoul looked down at her hand, afraid to betray his longing, and focused instead on the ring.  For a minute he said nothing, then his fingers reached out to carefully touch the flawless sapphire questioningly.  Christine's color heightened, but she made no move to pull her hand away, or to hide the tell-tale jewel.

"Do I recognize this, Christine?  Or am I perhaps just misremembering?" he said softly, not wanting to hurt her, or make it seem an interrogation.

Christine raised her hand, touching the ring in such a loving manner he had his answer.  "Yes, Raoul, it is the same ring," she said quietly.

Unable to let it go, he said, "Have you had it all along, or…?"

She shut her eyes, aware this conversation must be painful for him and worried about betraying Erik's fate.  Finally, she looked up at her old friend.  "No, Raoul.  He gave it back to me, and I accepted it, and all it means."

Raoul slowly drew in his breath in wonderment.  "The Opera Ghost survived, then, Christine?  And he came back for you?"

She shook her head.  "No, Raoul, I went to him.  I needed him…I love him.  He's like…the other half of my soul."  She stumbled, seeing the anguish on his face and feeling his fingers slowly tightening on her own, betraying his rising anger.  "Raoul, please believe me.  I had no idea he was alive.  I went down again to the house by the lake to sing his requiem.  I thought him dead.  He heard me.  We've been slowly trying to trust each other again since."

Raoul de Chagny leaned back in his seat, taking a long slow sip of his wine, trying to sort out his conflicting emotions.  He believed she truly had not known that the erratic man who lived beneath the Opera had survived.  He was pleased that Christine was happy, but still strangely desolate that the ring signified the death of his last remaining hopes.

"I don't know what to say," he said finally.  "I'm happy for you, Christine, but I can't help but wish…."

"I know," she said softly.  Both of them were tiptoeing around painful emotions, trying not to hurt the other.  She held his eyes with her own, an idea slowly coming to her.  "Raoul, would you like to meet him?  You've only ever seen him that one time by the portcullis gate, and none of us were….at our best then."

The Vicomte de Chagny turned away, fighting an instinctive desire to shout at her, grinding his teeth together.  And yet, she was his dear Christine.  He had promised to do what he could to help her, to be her friend.  Raoul took a deep breath.  "Yes.  If he will allow me to."

Christine shook her head doubtfully.  "If I ask it, he will."

Erik stood wire tense on the old Persian carpet in the library music room.  "You want me to invite Raoul de Chagny to my home, as though we were social acquaintances or friends?"  He shook his head, disbelieving, raking a hand through his hair.  "Christine, do not ask this of me.  Of all the world, only you and Adele Giry knew I was still alive.  How could you tell him?"  Erik's voice broke with smoldering anger and he sat on the edge of the couch, his head in his hands, his posture evidencing what he clearly thought was betrayal.

Christine knelt before him, resting her elbows on his knees and pulling his hands gently from his face.  Erik's black, bitter eyes refused to look at the woman he loved.  She reached a tentative hand up to his face, hoping she had not roused his formidable temper.  "Erik," she said softly, "I did it for us.  Raoul can help us, I know it."  She sighed internally.  "When will you learn to trust me, my angel?"

A lifetime's memories of betrayal, of promises broken, of hurt and rejection was marked clearly in his expression as he gathered her into his arms.  "I am sorry, Christine," he whispered in her hair.

She shook her head.  "I should have asked you first, Erik.  I didn't want to lie to him."

Resigned, Erik looked hopelessly at her.  "Where and when?"

Christine bit her lower lip, indecisive.  "I don't know."  She reached up to gently smooth his hair and bent to tenderly kiss him.  Erik's arms tightened around her as he hesitated a moment, then ardently returned the kiss.  Her lips parted and he deepened the contact, tasting the sweetness of her mouth, and felt her stir to press herself tightly against him.  The near electric contact of their bodies rapidly spiraled into a blaze.

"Erik…" she sighed, winding fingers through his hair, her hands stroking his back.  Bemused that she should reciprocate this heat, he let his hands explore the length of her back and risked lowering his head to taste the delicate column of her throat.  Christine leaned back, trusting her weight to his supporting arm, and Erik listened to the tremulous breaths of the woman in his arms, entranced.  Never, he would never have thought any woman would find his touch so pleasurable, never thought to feel insistent fingers stroking his back and neck mindlessly.  Reluctantly, Erik broke the astonishing contact and held her to him tightly, trying to slow his pounding heart.

Blushing a fiery rose, Christine avoided his enquiring gaze, ducking her head and letting her hair hide her face.  He tipped her chin to meet her stormy eyes.

"Oh!  How can you be so _infuriatingly calm?" she whispered heatedly.  Erik caught her hand, pressing it to his chest, and Christine's eyes widened at the pounding force of his pulse._

"My love, I am not calm at all," he murmured, unsure of his voice.  "But we are not yet married, and I didn't want to…."

Christine smiled lovingly down at him and blushed again.  "You make me feel so shameless," she whispered, watching him squirm, pleased to know she had this power over him as he did her.  "But you are right.  I shall go sit on my chair and behave decorously."  Christine's voice was prim, but she gave him an arch look as she slid off his lap and returned to her seat. 

Erik threw back his head and laughed richly.  "Wicked girl.  Get thee from me, temptress, lest I succumb to your charms."

Blushing, Christine hid once more behind her novel, still feeling the heated weight of his gaze upon her, and loving him. 

Raoul de Chagny exited his coach and ordered the driver to return in three hours.  He stood across the street from the imposing building, thinking for several minutes.  Carriages drove by, horses' hooves making a pleasant cadence on the rain-washed street.  The gaslights from the street lamps gave a soft haze to the evening.  Slowly, as if the weight of every stone in the Opera House was upon him, he crossed the street and mounted the handful of stairs.  Christine would be waiting for him in her dressing room.

Together, they returned through the Rue Scribe entrance.  For Raoul, the faint damp odor of wet stone and the slightly tacky feel of the corridor floor brought back the impressions of the only other dreadful time he had traveled this path, a scant four or five months ago.  Yet Christine walked serenely beside him, guiding them through the near darkness with the ease of long practice.  At one point she stopped and retrieved a small lantern from an all-but-invisible niche.  "It gets very dark from here on," she told him simply, taking his hand.  A few minutes later they emerged into an opening alongside the subterranean lake.  Christine extinguished the lantern, setting it carefully aside.  They skirted the edge of the icy water and came to an area that dated from the initial construction of the original building.  Christine stepped in front of him, partially blocking his view, and then to his amazement, an entire section of the wall swung smoothly out, propelled only by her small hands.  An alarmingly normal, polished oak door met his eyes, complete even to a knocker in the shape of a griffin's head.  Christine opened the door with a key and stepped inside.  He heard her call out.

"Erik?  Raoul and I are here."

Sweating slightly in spite of the chill air, he entered the underground house, and stopped in stunned surprise.  

Raoul de Chagny had only seen the alcove by the portcullis gate, not any part of the extraordinary dwelling that now opened before him.  Christine hung their wraps matter-of-factly on hooks in the foyer then turned to him, waiting quietly as he adjusted to this new setting.

Satiny wood paneled the walls, lit and turned golden by very ordinary gas lights.  An old, mellow-toned Persian carpet ran the length of the room.  Christine took his gloves and hat from his unresisting hands, placing them neatly on a long low scroll-back couch that sat against the wall.  A fine landscape painting depicting a storm scene hung above the couch.  With a faintly amused smile she led him through the foyer to a wide, warm room dominated by a battered concert grand piano and lined with hundreds of volumes of leather-bound books and _objects d'art.  In here as well, gas lamps lined the walls, but the pleasant atmosphere was created by numerous candles and a small, crackling fire.  Raoul's eyes were immediately drawn to the silent, motionless figure that rose slowly from one of the deep armchairs by the hearth, a man whose expressionless black eyes now lifted and connected with his own.  _

Christine walked to stand beside him, feeling the tension coiled tightly inside the rigid figure of the man she loved.  She turned her body slightly and took his hand.  "Erik?  It will be all right.  Trust me," she murmured.  "He is as unhappy over this as you are."

The visible corner of Erik's mouth quirked upward in what might have been a wolfish smile.  

"I sincerely doubt that."  He released Christine's fingers and stepped forward smoothly, endeavoring to keep the mocking tone from his voice.

"Welcome to my home, M. de Chagny."

Raoul raised his chin and extended his hand.  "I'm delighted to meet you under more civilized circumstances, Monsieur."  Erik eyed his hand warily a moment, then took it.  The two men bared their teeth at each other until Christine stamped her foot.  

"Stop it!  I can't bear it when you are angry!"

Both men turned to look at her, puzzled, then astonishingly, Raoul began to laugh as Erik smiled in grim amusement.  "She always did have a temper," the Vicomte said ruefully, as the two men seated themselves before the crackling fire.

"Cognac?" Erik inquired.  At the younger man's assent he rose and filled two balloon glasses from a heavy crystal decanter on the mahogany sideboard.  "One must observe the social niceties, must one not?" he inquired at Christine's startled expression and handed the glass to the Vicomte.  

Raoul sipped the fine liquor in appreciation.  "This is excellent," he said politely.

Christine rose.  "I'll see to dinner," she said and walked from the room, unaware of both men following her graceful exit with their eyes.

Raoul turned back to the silent, enigmatic man in the other seat.  Oddly, the more he saw the masked face here in this pleasant room, the less it disturbed him.  The man across from him was not ill-formed at all; in fact his height and the breath of his shoulders were quite impressive.  He wore a well-tailored suit of unrelieved black, made of a fine soft wool, with a stiff white formal wing-tip shirt and tie, a black brocade waistcoat, and polished leather boots.  The dark eyes that regarded him steadily were filled with intelligence, wariness, and most surprisingly, humor.  Defying fashion, his dark hair was brushed smoothly straight back from his high forehead.  He radiated an almost tangible aura of power and control. 

Leaning backward into the comfortable chair, Raoul smiled slightly and made an overture at conversation.  "You know, this isn't easy for me, either.  I've loved her since we met as children, and I admit I'm still disappointed she chose you instead, but I think it would be best for Christine if we put our differences aside."  He waited, watching the other man for a response.

Erik stirred, raising his visible eyebrow.  "Agreed, M. de Chagny," he said, his deep, powerful voice quiet.  "I would not have her made unhappy."

They studied each other in silence, sipping their drinks, volumes unsaid between them.  "You love her, just as I do," Raoul said softly, finally.

"Yes.  She is my world, my life," Erik said simply.  He turned away to stare in to the fire, uncomfortable with this scrutiny.

"Will you marry her?  You have given her a ring."

Erik rose abruptly, a swift, powerful move and Raoul tensed, though the other man did not see his reaction.  Erik paced, setting his cognac snifter down with a deliberate care that spoke volumes about his internal control.  "How can you ask me that?  I would have married her long ago, only…"

"Only what?" he inquired reasonably, settling back again into the comfortable chair.

"Need you ask?  How can I?  My…appearance, my history; what priest would marry us?"  He walked to the grand piano, touching its cool surface to calm his agitation.

Raoul paused, thinking.  "I see," he said slowly.

"Gentlemen?" Christine's voice came clearly to them from the doorway.  Erik turned instantly, his face softening.  Christine came toward him and took his arm, smiling up into his brooding face.  "Shall we eat?"

Raoul followed them down the hallway and into a dining room that would not have looked out of place in any of Paris' finest houses.  Candlelight gleamed off of fine china and crystal.  Christine had prepared an excellent meal for them, though he noted Erik only sat and sipped his wine, not eating, listening to their conversation.

Christine had just served them coffee in tiny gold rimmed cups when Raoul looked over at Erik.  "I think I may have a solution to one of your problems."

Erik steepled his fingers, watching the younger man warily.  "Oh?  And what is that?"

He turned to Christine.  "Did you ever meet Father Lavigne while you were visiting my home a few months ago?"

Frowning, she tried to remember.  "I don't think so, Raoul.  At least, I don't remember meeting a priest."

"Father Lavigne is our family's priest.  He lives out in the country with us, and would never have heard of any of the …events here last fall.  I am certain, if you could come out to my home in Beauvais, that he would marry you without reservation."  Raoul looked over at Erik and said quietly, "Father Lavigne once had a younger brother, one who had been badly burned in a fire as a youth.  Father tended Jean until he died a few years ago.  I do not think you would have cause to worry about your…appearance with him."

Christine drew in her breath, high color on her cheeks, her eyes hopeful.  She reached for Erik's fingers, squeezing them tightly.  "Erik," she breathed, "do you think it is possible?"

"I don't know," he said guardedly, turning over the ramifications in his mind.  "There are many things to consider.  When will _Aida_ finish its run?  What documentation must we provide?  How would we travel there and back again?"

"The latter question is simple.  You would travel in my carriage.  I can ask Father Lavigne about the necessary documents," Raoul said earnestly.  "Monsieur Erik, I know this can be done.  Will you allow me to help you?  For Christine's sake?  She has no family, and I at least knew her father.  All I ask is that you let me attend the wedding," he added with a smile.

"I don't see how we could stop you, seeing as it may be at your estate," Erik said dryly, "but unless Christine has any objections, you would be welcome."

"Whom else shall we invite?" Christine asked, her eyes shining with hope.

"Perhaps Mme. Giry, and little Meg, of course," he mused.  "I have no family, and no one else I would care to ask.  Christine?"

She shook her head.  "Everyone I care about is here, in this room, except for Meg and Madame."  Reaching across the table, she clasped Raoul's hand.  "Oh, do you think it could be?"

"I will do my best to arrange it.  There should be no problem," he said reassuringly.

They talked in a desultory fashion for several more minutes, then Raoul spoke.  "M. Erik, if I may ask, the furnishing and artworks in this house, are they yours or….?"

"Did I pilfer them from the Opera?" he supplied, a slight edge to his voice.  "No, M. de Chagny, they are mine, purchased legally and brought here a piece at a time.  People do not tend to notice 'props' being moved about in a theater."

Erik leaned back into the shadows, angling his long body across the chair and pushing his wineglass negligently aside.  "Would it surprise you to learn I was once an architect, as well as a composer?  I worked with M. Charles Garnier to design this building and actively participated in its construction.  If what you are asking is am I able to care for Christine, the answer is yes.  I have….sufficient wealth," he said evenly.

Raoul lowered his yes at the thinly veiled menace in the older man's tone, seeing a distressed Christine place a soothing hand on Erik's clenched fist.  For a few minutes in the midst of this mundane setting, he had forgotten whom he was dealing with—a man who had murdered, who had planned and schemed to build and hide this secret lair with its deadly traps and labyrinthine tunnels.  Once again, he mentally questioned the wisdom of treating this brilliant albeit twisted man in any ordinary fashion, of allowing his actions to continue unabated in this dark world below the Opera.  Raoul stared darkly into the bitter dregs of his coffee.

Christine stood, breaking the sudden silence, and silently began collecting a stack of used dishes and utensils.  Somewhat to Raoul's surprise, Erik rose immediately to assist her.  The two of them worked together, seamlessly blending their motions in an unspoken harmony of actions as they carried dishes back to the kitchen.  

Christine turned to her dark angel in the kitchen, hesitantly sliding her hands around his waist and placing her head on his shoulder.  Stiffly, Erik put his arms around her, pulling her close, and laying his cheek alongside her soft hair. 

"I do so dislike meeting people," he whispered.  "They are so judgmental."

In his wire-tense body she felt the rigid control and the bitter anger that life had consigned him to this underground fate, had given him a countenance that in no way represented the brilliant, passionate, creative man inside, a man who longed to be accepted.  Saddened, she held him more tightly in her arms, wordlessly reassuring him to her, he was all that mattered.  Erik stared bleakly across the room, knowing for Christine's sake he must still endure the remainder of this falsely social evening.

With the table cleared, he led the way back to the pleasant music room and once again seated himself in his deep armchair.  Raoul had taken the other armchair and Christine came to stand behind Erik, leaning over his chair and placing a gentle kiss on the top of her fiancé's dark hair.  Erik reached up, covering her small square hand with his own.  Raoul watched his face soften.  For a moment his eyes were unguarded, gentle and filled with love as he turned to tenderly place a kiss in Christine's palm.

And therein lay the difference, Raoul realized.  Her love and acceptance had brought a measure of peace to this tormented soul.  Somehow, he had not truly realized the depth of feeling Erik had for this young singer.  Perhaps after all, she would be safe and cherished here.

Frowning slightly, he looked over at Erik, who was watching Christine now standing before the fire and holding her hands to the blaze.  Momentarily, longing was plainly visible in his dark eyes, then his face resumed its normal impassive expression as he turned to the Vicomte.

"Have you any other questions, Monsieur?" Erik asked quietly.  "Otherwise, Christine has informed me she would like to conclude this evening with some music.  She says you have a rather pleasant voice?"  There was a faint challenge in his tone.

Raoul gave Christine an annoyed look and she grinned impishly back.  "I am nowhere near to her ability, but I'm not hopelessly tone-deaf, either."   He looked directly at Erik.  "I do still have questions, Monsieur, but they involve to what extent I might yet assist the two of you, and I'm not ready to discuss them yet.  And yes, I'm willing to sing with you."

Christine came to stand by the battered black piano, placing one hand on it expectantly.  Erik seated himself at the instrument, flexing his long fingers.  "What do you wish to sing, my dear?"

"Nothing too strenuous, please!" she said smiling.

"Of course not," Erik said mildly.  "You must not strain your voice after this evening's performance."  He brought his hands down on the keyboard and played the introduction to a short, sweet song that Christine sang as a warm-up.

Eyes sparkling, Christine then requested a wide variety of ballads and comic songs from several popular operettas, and Erik obliged her with a look of dry amusement.  Standing on the other side of the piano, Raoul joined in, blending his pleasant baritone with hers.  Breathless with laughter, he begged after a half hour to stop.

"Erik?  Would you sing with me?"  Christine asked him shyly.  To Raoul she added simply, "He has a truly magnificent voice, and I'm the only one who ever hears it."  Raoul nodded and turned to the silent man at the piano.

Erik sat, thinking, then his powerful hands began the opening chords to one of Handel's duets.  Christine took the first stanza, her heavenly voice filling the library room.  At the second verse, Erik's deep voice joined with hers, the two of them perfectly matched in tone and timbre.  Raoul stood silently, marveling.  At only a few points in the evening had Erik needed to glance at any written score.  He only rarely looked at the keyboard, his large agile hands spanning the octaves as easily and as gracefully as swallows.  Erik sat now, effortlessly playing what must surely be a difficult piece, his eyes locked on Christine, and hers on his as they sang the passionate duet from _La Traviata_.  His voice had an incredible range, with an unrivalled depth and richness.  Raoul understood now what Christine had meant when she had attempted to describe her "Angel of Music", and how she had fallen in love first with the sound of his voice.

Riding home in his carriage across the quiet city a little later that night, Raoul de Chagny was forced to rethink several of his long-cherished misconceptions.  Erik and Christine had a deep, trusting, loving relationship.  The man himself, in spite of his demonic appearance, was an incredibly talented musician, had been a successful architect, and was an amateur scientist.  Had it not been for the terrible deformity of his face, he might have been one of the preeminent minds of Europe.  Raoul sadly shook his head.  There must be some way to arrange for Erik another chance at a normal life, for Christine's sake, and for his own.

@}~--'--,---'---,----

_Someone longs for you and your caress   
He's learning now how empty arms can be   
Someone who used to know your kiss not long ago   
That someone happens to be me   
  
How he misses you and must confess   
Without you he's like driftwood on the sea   
He's just a dreamer who is still in love with you   
That dreamer happens to be me   
  
I'll never know just why we parted   
It's more than I can comprehend   
I only know when you departed   
You started a night that has no end   
  
Perhaps there'll come a time when you're alone   
Your heart still haunted by a memory   
If then you chance to find there's someone on your mind   
I hope it happens to be me   
  
_

_I Hope It Happens To Be Me__  
Written by S. Gallop, A. Kent—sorry—I can't find the date_

_From the Nat King Cole album, Ballads of the Day_


	8. Chapter 7 Promises, Part I

Well, here it is at last!  Chapter 7!  Sorry it's taken a while this time between updates—that "real life" thing kept getting in the way.  I'm posting it in two parts, because it is so long.

Roses and thank-yous to Midasgirl, Ash(), Lavender, Soldier of Darkness, Dreamer, Paula, and L'Ange de Folie for your reviews!  It really makes my day to come home and find them in my email!  @}~--'--,--'--,----  

Dreamer—thank you for your review on my short story—it was feeling very sad and neglected.

Kates—where are you?  

As usual, if anyone finds errors, please let me know.

Oh, yes, of course.  **The Usual Disclaimer.  The story, characters, most of the settings, the French language, weddings, Beauvais, the song "The Music of the Night," and the city of Paris are not mine, and I receive no profit from this little endeavor.  I only get the enjoyment of reading the reviews, and the thrill of correcting my errors…**

--Riene

**Promises **

"I have just heard from Mamman!"  Meg Giry's sea-blue eyes were wide with amazement and a trace of envy as she slipped inside the door of Christine's dressing room.  "Why didn't you _tell_ me!"

Laughing, the singer rose from her dressing table and hugged her excited little friend.  "I was going to tell you before the performance tonight, but you were busy."

Meg made a little _moue of annoyance.  "Mamman thought we needed to practice the pirouettes in the Spring Dance.  Some of us didn't, but…."_

"She made you all stay anyway," Christine finished, smiling.  "How well I remember!  I was _terrified of your mother at first!"  _

Meg grasped her hands, and drew Christine down on the chaise, giggling.  "She can be fierce!  Let me see your ring!"  She seized Christine's hand and turned it over, lifting her friend's small square hand into the light.  Gaslight caught in the deep blue stone, striking sparks within.  "Oh," Meg said shakily, "it's beautiful."

Christine smiled and said softly, "Yes.  He said he wanted a stone that matched my eyes."

"How sweet," she whispered.  "Christine, I'm so happy for you.  Is there any chance I'll ever meet him?  I know Mamman has seen your Erik several times, but I never have, except just that one night on the stage….," she said wistfully.

Christine frowned and turned away.  "I don't know, Meg," she replied honestly.  "Erik doesn't like….he's very uncomfortable meeting people."

The dancer frowned slightly.  "Christine, have you ever thought how…awkward… that might be?  I don't mean to be cruel," Meg added hastily, "but if no one ever sees him, how will you ever be able to do the normal things that couples do?  I mean, I understand why he doesn't want to see people but..." she finished miserably, in a muddle.

With a sigh, Christine leaned back against the chaise, frowning.  "Oh, Meg, I can't give you an answer.  Erik does go out occasionally, and we do go for walks in the evenings quite often, or at least as often as my Opera schedule permits.  I'll ask him tonight if he wouldn't mind you joining us for dinner.  In fact," she added thoughtfully, "Raoul is coming for dinner again quite soon.  That might be a good night for you to join us.  Uneven numbers at the table, and all that, you know."  She smiled faintly.

Two days later, Meg Giry found herself following Christine through the mirror.

She watched, her eyes growing wider as the mirror seemed to rise slightly and pivot on unseen hinges, propelled only by Christine's hands.  Christine stepped across the portal and turned to her.

"Meg?" she questioned gently, seeing the trepidation in her friend's face.  Meg swallowed and followed.  "Hold the mirror a moment, please; I must light the lantern," Christine explained absently.  A moment later a dim glow emerged from the lamp.  At Christine's nod Meg released the heavy glass and it swung silently shut, sealing with a barely audible click.  Christine adjusted the visors around the lamp so that it shone forward and looked down into her friend's face, seeing the nervousness and fear plainly visible.  She held out her hand and gratefully, the little dancer clasped it.

"There's nothing to be afraid of here," Christine said softly.  "I've come down this path many times alone.  Erik will be waiting for us by the lake.  Are you ready?"

Meg nodded.  "Yes," she whispered, leaving her hand in Christine's.  

_She is not that much younger than I, thought Christine, __and yet, I feel so much older.  Perhaps it is knowing Erik, or perhaps it is everything I have lived through in these last many months.  Strange how I have never noticed until now._

The corridors were musty with unventilated air and their slippers disturbed the dust of the floors.  Meg felt as if they had been walking for hours, though she knew it had only been a few minutes.  She clenched her jaw at the effort not to jump or shriek at the brush of the occasional cobweb, or the accidental touch of damp chill stone.  They moved past several narrow bends and tight passages, down stairs and across an arch that spanned part of the underground river.  At last the stone floors gave way to natural rock, the foundation of the Opera House.  Emerging into the underground cavern, Meg could smell the cold scent of deep water and could hear the faint slurring of the waves as they rubbed against the rocky shore.  Christine set the lantern into a niche and shut off the light.  She turned, looking out across the lake.

"Erik?" she called softly.

"Here."  

He materialized out the darkness, appearing beside them silently.  Meg startled violently then went limp with relief.  Christine turned to him, a barely visible blur in the dim light he now adjusted.  She moved toward him and Meg saw the Opera Ghost lift a gentle hand to lightly caress her cheek, a wealth of tenderness in his gesture.

"Erik, I've brought Meg with me, for dinner tonight."

"So I see," he returned coolly.  "Mlle. Giry?"

Meg came to stand beside Christine uncertainly.  She had never had an opportunity to observe him closely.  He was a slim powerful man, tall with a corresponding breadth of shoulders and chest, narrow hips, and elegant hands.  Black eyes regarded her curious gaze sardonically and Meg blushed, lowering her eyes.

"If you have seen enough," his acid whisper cut through the air, "please follow Christine into my boat and sit toward the far end.  I will transport you to the opposite shore.  And Mlle. Giry?"

Meg turned, shivering.

"Not a word about what you will see here tonight.  Am I understood?"  He loomed above her, his black eyes glowing golden in the light of the lantern.

"Erik," Christine murmured softly.  At once he turned to her, standing in wordless communication with the young singer, then turned back to the little dancer, his black velvet voice somewhat quieter.  "You must tell no one, Mlle. Giry.  The world above this lake wishes me dead, so dead I must remain."

Swallowing hard, Meg nodded.  "I swear, Monsieur, I will say nothing."

Raoul de Chagny leaned back against the plush cushions of the carriage, noting that the springs felt as though they needed replacing soon.  He made a mental note to have the coachman attend to that detail and turned his thoughts to the dinner and to the woman he would be seeing this rain-softened evening.

The Vicomte had been angry, quite angry, though he had concealed it well, at seeing that familiar gold and sapphire ring on Christine's finger.  For several minutes he had gritted his teeth at the rising tide of questions, refusing to interrogate the woman he still loved.  Christine's eyes had been guileless, honest as she told him of how she had truly thought the Opera Ghost dead.  She had asked for them to meet….

Against his every instinct, Raoul had done so; following Christine down the labyrinthine passages to the underground house of a murderer and madman.  Physically, he knew he was no match for the Opera Ghost, for all he was some years younger.  Raoul had thought he was prepared to do anything except face what had actually happened.  Somehow, through the hours of that evening, he had felt an unwilling trickle of sympathy for his rival.  

For the Opera Ghost had a name—Erik—and had proven to be a man, an incredibly ugly man it was true, but a man none the less.  A man who was widely traveled, an expert in many fields, a man whose eyes betrayed his adoration of Christine Daaé.  And Christine had touched his body and his hands with love in her eyes….

The carriage made its last turn into Paris, and Raoul wearily shook his head.  Over and over those final days of Christine's visit had played out in his mind; he could think of nothing that could have been done differently.  Christine had started her gradual withdrawal from him long before that newspaper announcing Erik's death had arrived.  Oddly, she seemed to feel closer to him now, and was far more relaxed in his presence than she had been during those last few days at the family estate in Beauvais.  Unwillingly he had been forced to consider that perhaps Christine had been right.

So upon his return Raoul had sought out Father Lavigne as he had promised.

_The priest entered the de Chagny home with a purposeful tread, finding Raoul in the small room he used as a study._

_"You asked for me, my son?" he said simply.  _

_The Vicomte turned from his desk and rose to offer the priest a glass of wine._

_"I have a question for you, Father.  It concerns friends of mine, in __Paris__."_

_Father Lavigne seated himself and waited, raising his eyebrows and nodding encouragingly._

_Raoul dragged a hand through his hair, thinking how to describe this request._

_"I was once engaged to Christine Daaé, Father, you know that.  You also know we decided to call off our engagement; there was another man she wanted, more than she wanted me," he said painfully.  "It is for Christine and this man that I ask this favor.  They wish to be married, and have no church or priest to go to for the service.  This man, Erik, is…badly scarred, deformed, really.  I know he has not attended mass in many years, though Christine attends regularly.  Can you marry them, Father?"_

_The black-haired priest smoothed his robes absently, thinking.  "I would need to meet with them, of course.  There are questions I must ask, and I would need to have their names filed properly for the certificate, but I can see no reason right now why I cannot arrange their wedding ceremony."_

Erik poled them across the misty lake and soon the gondola boat reached the opposite shore.  He leapt gracefully out across a seemingly impossible distance of lapping waves and secured the boat against the jetty, then turned to lift Christine to shore.  Meg repressed a shudder when the Opera Ghost wrapped his cold hands around her arms, then effortlessly pulled her up against his warm body, spinning her feet across the water to place her carefully by her friend.  The brush of his cloak against her face tingled, and she could detect faint, enticing odors of sandalwood, soap, and candle smoke in the soft fabric.  His body had been warm, masculine, hard and tight with muscle.  Blushing, Meg found herself regarding his back appraisingly as they walked up the path toward his home.  

Erik stood aside to let the women enter first into the foyer, and Meg stopped and stared in wonder much as had Raoul done some days before.  With a bow he then left Meg and Christine to go meet Raoul at the Rue Scribe entrance, and soon all four were gathered in the underground house.  Raoul greeted the ballerina effusively; glad to have another friendly face around the dining table.  Meg's sea-blue eyes were wide with amazement and began to sparkle with pleasure at seeing him again.  She sketched him a quick curtsey.

"Monsieur le Vicomte," she murmured.

He smiled at her, warming her through.  "Raoul, for this evening, please, Mlle., and I will call you Meg."

Christine watched her old friend meet the little dancer with inward private amusement.  Meg had long been attracted to the tall, sun-bronzed Vicomte, and for tonight at least, she could play matchmaker between the two of them.

"We are ready to eat.  If you'll follow me?" she smiled.

As before, Erik chose not to eat in front of his guests, and sat back into the shadows, sipping his wine, listening to their merry conversation.  Christine smiled over at him, feeling her heart lift at the sight of his dark eyes lit with enjoyment.  Perhaps their married life might yet bring him the satisfaction of these simple pleasures.

Raoul leaned back, neatly folding his napkin and placing it on the table.  "And now to the reason I've come here.  Christine, Erik, I've spoken with Father Lavigne, and somewhat explained your situation.  He is very willing to meet with you, and to marry you if possible."  Raoul smiled at them.

Christine gasped with delight and seized Erik's hand, squeezing it tightly.  "When and where, Raoul?  Can he come here, or should we go to your home?"

"I would prefer no one else come here," Erik said quietly.  "My…privacy has been much invaded, as of late."  For a moment there was silence, and then Christine began to laugh, seeing the wry humor in his face.  

"If that is your wish, we can certainly arrange a trip north," Raoul said mildly.  "I would be pleased to offer the loan of my carriage and driver for the day.  With your permission, I'll set up a date in the near future."  He looked at Christine.  "Just let me know your schedule, and I'll see what can be done."

They rose from the table and retired to the music room.  Erik obliged them with melodies of his own composing as Raoul opened and shared the bottle of Armagnac he had brought, and too soon the evening drew to a close.

"I must be going home soon, I promised Mamman I would not come in late," Meg leaned over to whisper to Christine.

Raoul stood quickly.  "I need to depart as well.  With your permission, I'll see Mlle. Giry home."  He smiled down at the dancer, who smiled back up at him.  

Erik raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.  The Vicomte had seemed quite taken with his fiancé's friend tonight.  The gaslight turned her upswept curls to spun gold and deepened her sea-blue eyes.  He could understand the Vicomte's attraction, and the two of them would be more comfortable following him up to the ground level with each other to talk to.

After Erik returned from leading them up to the Rue Scribe entrance, he found Christine waiting in the library music room.  She had brought in two cups of tea and was sitting curled in the tapestry chair by the fire, staring dreamily into its flickering depths.

"Pleasant thoughts, my dear?" he asked softly, settling his long body into the heavily carved ebony chair.

Christine looked at him lovingly and blushed.  "I was thinking about what all I needed to do before our wedding, Erik, and how much I'm looking forward to it."

He templed his fingers thoughtfully.  "There are still many details we must attend to.  We must choose rings; we will have to get you a dress and perhaps a new suit of clothing for me."  

"A dress isn't any trouble, Erik," she said quietly.  "I have the wedding dress you…had me wear, that night."

He looked across the table at her, deeply surprised.  "You kept it?" he whispered.  "I would have thought…the memories of that night would have been too painful.  I didn't think you would have wanted that gown."

She rose from the chair and came to sit beside him on the low stool, looking up into his distressed face.  "No, Erik.  The dress was beautiful.  I knew you had selected it just for me.  It fit perfectly; it was exactly what I would have chosen myself."

Erik slowly, cautiously lowered his hand to caress her hair, her cheek.  "I am still so sorry about that night, Christine.  I was….half out of my mind with fear of losing you."

In his eyes she saw the sorrow these memories had caused, and read there also his fear that she might still leave him.  "Oh, Erik," she whispered, and folded her arms across his knees, then lowered her head to rest upon them, looking into the fire.  "I do love you so much.  Of course I kept the dress.  I kept everything you ever gave me."

He stroked her silky soft curls.  "My love, I do not know how I would have continued living, had you not come back to me when you did."  

They sat talking of their plans until late into the night.

Raoul sent the carriage for them early one morning after one of Christine's last spring concert performance.  They would travel to Beauvais, to meet with Father Lavigne this day.

Wearing the Opera Ghost's protective, concealing hat and cloak once again, Erik locked the portcullis gate behind him and silently ascended the levels to the Rue Scribe doors.  Waiting in the shadows, he watched for the carriage to arrive.  Christine met him there, coming to stand close beside him.  Erik pulled her to him, enveloping her under the warmth of the cloak.  She rested her head against his shoulder and placed her right palm on his chest, feeling the strained tension in his body and the accelerated beating of his heart.  "My love, it will be all right.  Trust me," she murmured.  

Erik tightened his arm around her briefly, but made no answer.  A few more minutes passed, then a carriage bearing the Chagny family crest pulled up outside the Opera and a liveried footman stepped down.  Christine laced her fingers through Erik's and stepped forward.  

"Christophe?"  

The man smiled and touched his forehead.  "Mlle. Daaé.  Monsieur de Chagny sent me.  Are you ready?"

Erik moved quickly toward the carriage, ducking his head to avoid the offensive light of the early morning sun and turned to assist Christine into the dark cool interior.  He ducked into the carriage, then sank gratefully into the concealing interior shadows against the seat and tossed his hat onto the cushions opposite.

They began the hours drive out to Beauvais in order to meet with the priest Raoul had spoken of.  Erik sat beside her in tense silence, alternately watching the fields with their newly-emerged cover of green pass by out the small window, or studying his hands.  Years had passed since he had been this beholden to anyone, since his future had rested in someone else's control.  Sensing his discomfort, Christine moved across the carriage to sit beside him, reaching for his hand.  Erik's long cold fingers closed tightly over her own and she squeezed them reassuringly.  For Erik to come out into the revealing light of day, to travel this far from his underground lair, and to subject himself to the eyes of a stranger had taken an act of courage and reflected his faith in her devotion.  She leaned against him, wordlessly trying to offer comfort.

He glanced down at her, feeling the sweet weight of her dark head leaning against his shoulder.  She was his anchor of sanity in this acutely uncomfortable day.  Freeing his fingers, Erik wrapped an arm around his beloved and brushed his lips across her forehead.  For her dear sake today he would act as any man might, preparing for his wedding.

People tended to think a priest would be an ascetic and physically weak man.  First impressions of Father Lavigne quickly changed that.  He was a broad shouldered sturdy man with curling black hair and twinkling blue eyes.  Father Lavigne had been a priest among the poor of Paris until the deaths of his parents forced him back to the area around Beauvais to care for his ailing brother.  It had been thought Jean would not have survived this long, and by the time the badly burned and crippled young man finally gave up the struggle Father Lavigne was too deeply entrenched in the lives of the villagers and of the landed gentry to leave.  It had been partially due to his influence that this tiny region of France had survived the years of turmoil and rebellion, of government change and collapse.  Both peasant and noble owed this quiet holy man much of their present security, for he worked tirelessly to promote the day of God's kingdom on the Earth.

He spent a great deal of time talking privately to both Erik and Christine, and came away feeling that whatever the sins of his past, this silent man deeply loved his fiancé.  In their faces he could find no fear, anger, or sorrow, only a deep and abiding love and faith.  With pleasure, he assured them that whenever they wished, he would be pleased to perform their wedding ceremony.  Gratefully, Erik had shaken his hand, and Christine had impulsively kissed his cheek, bringing a flood of ruddy color and a sparkle to Father Lavigne's eyes.

The next two weeks were a whirl of activity for Christine.  She gave up her flat in Paris, moving in with Meg and her mother for the time being.  There were hours of shopping to do, announcements to be ordered, fittings for her trousseau, and of course, the rehearsals and performances of the spring series of concerts.  Christine had quietly informed the management that she would be getting married to a man she had met through the Opera, and that they would delay their honeymoon trip until after the concert season was over.  Monsieurs André and Firmin had reluctantly accepted her explanation that the wedding to this unnamed architect and composer would be intimate, kept private due to her public status and recent broken engagement to the Vicomte.

For Erik, these last two weeks were an agony of waiting.  He saw very little of Christine, for Mme. Giry would not hear of her spending any more nights in the underground house before they were wed.  She managed to see him for a few minutes each day, whether for a hastily consumed meal, or through a brief visit in her dressing room.  Forced to spend hours alone again, Erik was painfully reminded of how essential to his life she had become.  The underground house echoed with the silence.  He could not bring himself to remove the small reminders of her presence—an open book, a ribbon, a pair of forgotten slippers—and often touched them as a talisman that she would indeed return to him.  Erik left his underground demesne only of necessity during this time, for in an entirely unprecedented move, Fate had somehow overlooked his presence in these last many weeks.  He feared to draw its attention again, here on the cusp of attaining everything he had ever longed for.

They chose rings, a simple brushed gold band for Christine, one that matched her engagement ring, and a heavier plain brushed gold band for Erik.  The jeweler was familiar with the tall silent masked man, and had only smiled at Christine, expressing his delight in meeting at last the woman for whom so many exquisite gifts had been purchased.

Christine went with her fiancé to the elderly crippled tailor that had for years made Erik's elegant clothing, and together they selected a fine smooth pearl-gray fabric for a wedding suit of clothes.  After so many years of wearing black, Erik was amused by her delight in this change of color.

At last it seemed their preparations were complete.  On the evening before their departure, Christine firmly told Mme. Giry she would be spending some time in the underground house with her fiancé.  On wings of song she flew down the chill stone corridors to surprise him.

Just inside the underground house she paused, hearing the strained tones of his violin.  Curious as to why he had not heard the alarm bell, Christine walked slowly toward the music room, listening to the piercingly sorrowful amber-dark tones of the stringed instrument.  

Erik stood before the dim fire in the near darkness, letting the music express his tangled thoughts.  He had, in recent months, given way to more emotion, to more pure feeling, than he had in many years.  Control was such an integral part of his being, and to have so far lost that command in his helpless love for Christine was at times overwhelming.  Try as he might, Erik could simply not comprehend that she reciprocated this feeling toward him, that she was willing to bind her life to his.  For so long he had been hated, feared and reviled by all whom met him.  These weeks of bittersweet restraint against the exquisite power of her flesh and the fiery desire he felt had exhausted him.  This vulnerability, this consuming joy would surely destroy him, should he continue to give way to it.

And yet, how could he not?  

Christine stood, concealed in the shadows just beyond the heavy library doors, watching silently.  Erik slowly lowered the violin and replaced it gently in its case.  Would those elegant hands that so carefully touched the golden wood of that fine instrument touch her in the same tender way?  She repressed a shiver of delight in the thinking of it.  

Erik sat slowly down in his chair, facing the fire.  Hesitantly, his hands rose and removed the mask, laying it carefully on the low table.  His hands moved questioningly, touching the twisted, scarred ridges of his terrible face.  How could she express such willingness to tolerate this appalling visage?  How ever would he be able to reveal himself completely to her, to hold her as a normal man would, to offer her physical love?  He felt paralyzed, helpless, impotent, and bent his face into his hands.

Christine stood stunned at this side of Erik she had never seen revealed.  The pain in that dimly lit room was so real she could almost touch it.  She ached to rush to him, to hold him and kiss him, to assure him of her love, for she knew this man, knew his moods and fears as well as she knew her own, and knew that once again he was assailed by terrible self-doubt.

She stepped into the warm dim pool of light, moving toward him, and Erik's head snapped up, his eyes blazing in furious embarrassment at being caught in this moment of private despair.  Christine walked toward him, a gentle, tender smile on her face.  

"Oh, Christine, why are you here?" he asked harshly, and immediately regretted the words.  He rose, desperately trying to contain the well of emotion that threatened to drown him, and held out a hand in mute apology.

Unable to bear the pain in his eyes, Christine wrapped her arms around her dark angel, cradling him to her.  Erik turned her face away from his unmasked cheek, pressing her head into his shoulder.  "I am sorry I spoke to you so," he whispered.  "Forgive me, my love."

She pulled loose from his embrace and looked up into his dark eyes.  "I'm sorry too, Erik, I shouldn't have startled you.  I had to come see you tonight; I've not seen you very often lately and I was missing you so much."

Erik allowed himself to brush the lightest of kisses across her forehead.  "I have…missed you as well, Christine," he whispered, not trusting his voice.

She stood gazing up into his terrible face for long seconds before she finally spoke.  "Erik?  When I came in just then, what was wrong?  Were you doubting me, doubting my love?"

He released her and walked to the mantle, staring wearily down into the fire.  "No," he answered tiredly.  "I am…Christine, I am still willing to release you.  You do not have to go through with this farce tomorrow."

"This farce?"  She stood quietly, torn between anger and grim amusement.  "Is that what you think this is?  Erik, I love you," her voice softened.  "You are my heart and my soul.  You are not forcing me to do anything, and I will not tolerate this blatant attempt to drive me away."  Christine walked across the soft Persian carpet and wrapped her arms around his painfully stiff body.  "Trust me, my love.  Trust in us.  I love you.  I need you.  I want to spend the rest of my life with you.  If it takes me the rest of my days to make you believe this, to make you believe you deserve to be happy, then so be it.  Give me the chance, Erik.  Don't thrust me away from you again!"

With an anguished cry, Erik turned and took her into his arms.  His body shuddered against hers, and Christine reached up, kissing his cheeks, his eyes, his lips, stroking his hair.  Years of denial and repressed emotion surged through him, and Erik wept with the release of its force, as Christine rocked her beloved angel in her arms.


	9. Chapter 7 Promises, Part II

Here is the second part of Chapter 7…hope you like it…..  Chapter 8 will be up sometime this weekend.

Many roses and thank-yous to Dreamer, Midasgirl, Ash, Lavender, Soldier of Darkness, Black Hunter, Serene, Becky, Paula, Erin, Kates, and L'Ange de Folie for your reviews!  It really makes my day to come home and find them in my email!  @}~--'--,--'--,----  

And yes, everyone, the website is posted here at last, at the end of Part 2!  Please drop me a note to let me know what you think of the site and the other version….  I will post the other chapters to my website at the same time I post them here on fanfiction.net.  A couple of you will notice I have added links on my favorite phan phiction sites to your webpages or to your fanfiction.net pages.  I mean this as a sincere compliment to your writing abilities, and hope no one is offended.  If I've inadvertently left you out, or if you do not wish to be "advertised"—many apologies, and let me know.  I'll keep updating!

Oh, yes, of course.  **The Usual Disclaimer.  The story, characters, most of the settings, the French language, weddings, Beauvais, the song "The Music of the Night," and the city of Paris are not mine, and I receive no profit from this little endeavor.  I only get the enjoyment of reading the reviews, and the thrill of correcting my errors…**

--Riene

**Promises  Part II **

And so they were married on a glorious spring morning in the salon of the de Chagny country estate.  Christine walked down the staircase on Raoul's arm, wearing the dress and the long veil Erik had brought for her so long ago, and carrying a bouquet of dark red roses, so dark a red they seemed black against the ivory silk.  Raoul slowly brought her to the side of the silent man standing at the foot of the stairs.  Erik's eyes were filled with an incredulous joy, a joy so powerful he thought his heart might very well burst with the intensity of it.  Raoul stopped before him, bowing slightly from the waist, and released Christine's hand.  She stepped lightly forward and Erik extended his hand to her.  

For a moment he stood, silently absorbing her with his eyes, memorizing every line of her face.  "I love you, Christine," he whispered, "more than life, I love you.  I never thought this day would truly ever come to pass." 

Christine placed her arm in the crook of his elbow and gazed up into his eyes, a joy that mirrored his own shining there.  The sun streaming through the oriel windows gave a luminous quality to her skin, and the ivory dress seemed to glow.  "Erik, I love you so very much.  Are you ready?" she asked softly.

He tightened his long fingers around her own, and the two of them turned together and entered the salon.

Meg and Adele Giry, Raoul de Chagny, and the priest were the only witnesses as Christine and Erik pledged their vows.  His reverent "I do.  I will always do so," brought tears to Meg's eyes, but it was Christine's sweet, trusting response that caused those tears to slip unheeded down her cheeks.  Raoul offered her his spotless crisp handkerchief and she took it, leaving her small hand in his. The couple exchanged rings, and it seemed an eternity as Erik lifted the gossamer veil to gently, lovingly kiss his bride.  

Though Raoul had offered the smaller house on the grounds of the estate, both Christine and Erik had gently refused, claiming they only wanted to return to their underground home for this, their first night of marriage, and Raoul could hardly deny them.  Meg and Adele Giry were asked to stay the night as guests at the de Chagny estate and would return to Paris tomorrow.  

They entered through the Rue Scribe gate once more, but maneuvered through the hallways until they arrived at Christine's dressing room and were quickly through the pivoting mirror.  Here the passages were somewhat wider, decreasing the chance that Christine would soil the exquisite ivory silk wedding dress she had worn back from the de Chagny estate in Beauvais.  She looped the train over one lace-covered arm and placed her other hand in Erik's.  The two walked slowly down the corridors in mutual silence, feeling the magic of their journey enfolding them in an ethereal mist of daydream.  

Erik untied the beloved gondola boat and reverently handed her into it.  Somehow before their departure he had arranged to clean the small craft and line it with rich heavy velvet cushions.  Christine sank onto them, turning to watch her tall husband effortlessly pole them across, singing softly to her of his immense love. 

At the other side of the lake, Erik lifted his wife into his powerful arms and carried her gracefully across the jetty and up the path to his, no, _their_ home.  Christine rested her head on his broad chest, enjoying the feel of his heartbeat under her cheek, her heart so full of love and gratitude that this day had finally become possible that there was no room for further thought.  Erik carried her across the threshold into the foyer and gently lowered her feet to the ground.  He stood looking at her, his face awed, and raised her left hand to his lips.  "My wife," he breathed.

"My husband!" she returned, smiling radiantly.  She leaned forward, kissing his exposed cheek.  Erik's arms rose and wound themselves around her, pulling her tightly to his chest.  Christine sighed and melted against him, resting trustingly in his embrace.  For several minutes he simply held her, gently rubbing his good cheek against her soft hair.  Finally he said, "Christine, the hour is getting late.  Are you hungry?  You ate so little at the reception."

Considering, she nodded.  "Yes.  We'd best see what there is to eat.  But first, I need to hang up this dress—I couldn't bear to muss it."  She stepped away, turning her back.  "Would you please take care of the buttons?  They're so tiny and I can't reach them all."

For several seconds Erik stood paralyzed, then she felt his long powerful hands descend to her waist and hover there.  With agonizing slowness they traveled up to her neck and lit there, trembling.  Carefully, he unfastened each tiny pearl button, his hands warm on her skin and lacking their usual deftness.  When the last button came undone, he slid his hands under the fragile fabric, around her waist, and bent to gently kiss the nape of her neck.  Christine gasped with the shock of his lips on her bare skin.  She turned under his hands, her arms rising to pull his face down to meet her lips.  Erik was visibly trembling, and he met her kiss with an intensity that surprised them both.  His hands explored the warm length of her back, caressing her through the silk chemise, his mouth warm and slow upon hers.  Christine slid her arms up the sides of his body, spreading her fingers across his shoulder blades to hold him to her, almost mindless with joy as she learned the taste of his mouth and felt the velvet pressure of his tongue.  Finally Erik broke the contact, burying his face in her hair, his breathing harsh in her ears, his strong arms clasping her to him.

Christine felt the heat of his body, and knew he was struggling to maintain his precarious control.  "I'm sorry," he grated, "I know you need to eat.  I'll leave you in peace."  Erik whirled away, walking rapidly to his room, and shut the door.  She stared after him in dismay.  _Surely he doesn't think he has offended or frightened me? she wondered.  Christine turned and walked slowly to her old room, lost in thought.  It was entirely possible that her beloved husband was afraid; afraid his immense love would somehow frighten her with the intensity of his desire.  She shook her head once, decisively.  They both needed to eat, then she would do what she could to assure Erik his passion was not alone._

Once inside the Louis-Philippe room, Christine quickly slid the lovely wedding dress off and tenderly hung it in her wardrobe, placing the little white satin slippers below it.  She dressed quickly and knelt beside her bed to remove a flat parcel from beneath it.  Package in hand, she walked to Erik's door and knocked upon it.  

With head in hands, Erik sat on the bench of his ruined pipe organ, mired in self-doubt.  How could he go through with this night?  Christine was so sweet, so willing to let him touch her.  How could he completely reveal himself to her inexperienced gaze?  His body was flayed with the marks of old violence that could only repel her, and he feared to show the depth of his ignorance and ineptitude.  Erik took a deep breath, forcing his heartbeat to slow.  The intense desperation of the desire he felt threatened to completely overtake him at times, yet how could he ask his innocent Christine to submit to his passion?  Overwhelmed by a sudden wave of self-loathing, Erik stood and paced the room, clenching and unclenching his fists.

A knock sounded on the door and Christine's warm voice called his name.  They were married and he was still closing doors between them.  Grimly, Erik straightened and faced the sound.  "Come in, my dear," he said quietly.

Christine entered the room bearing a gaily wrapped package and smiling.  "I meant to give this to you earlier, Erik.  It's a groom gift for you.  Open it, I think you'll like it," she said merrily, handing it to him.  

Carefully, as if it might explode, Erik carried the box over to the bench and sat staring at it.  He looked up her, stricken.  "Christine, I do not have a bride gift for you.  I did not think…I didn't know," he ended humbly.

Christine sat beside him on the bench and put a loving arm around his waist.  "It's all right, Erik," she said softly, laying her head on his shoulder.  "You've given me so much these last two years, and I've given you so little in return.  I hope I can spend the rest of my life showing you how much I love you.  Please don't be upset that you don't have a gift for me.  It truly doesn't matter."

Accepting her words, he slid the ribbons aside and lifted the cover.  Nestled in layers of tissue lay a dressing gown of black cashmere wool.  He touched the fabric's softness reverently, tracing the satin lapels and the corded belt.  Tiny initials in embroidered script decorated the one pocket, their black silk thread blending with the fabric.  Christine clapped her hands.

"You found them!" she crowed, delighted.  "I bought the jacket, but added your monogram myself.  I wasn't sure you'd see them against the other material."

Erik touched the gown again.  "Thank you," he said shakily.  "No one has given me a gift in years, not since I was a small boy."

Refusing to let this be a sad occasion, Christine stood, pulling him up with her.  "Put it on!" she commanded.  "I can't wait to see how it looks on you!"  She stepped behind him, helping him remove his formal gray jacket.  Erik unfolded the dressing gown and gravely handed it to Christine, who held it as though assisting an emperor.  "Your robe, my lord," she intoned solemnly, blue eyes sparkling.  He slid his arms into the luxurious fabric and overlapped the sides.  Christine tied the corded belt with a flourish and stepped back admiringly.  

"You look marvelous.  How does it feel?"

Erik tilted his head to the side, considering.  "Very comfortable and quite warm.  Now, shall we go eat?"  He extended a hand to Christine and the two of them walked out of the room toward the kitchen.

They ate a simple meal together at the polished dining table, then moved to the library music room.  Erik had grown increasingly quiet throughout the evening meal, and Christine felt her own nervous flutter tightening inside.  She touched the beloved piano gently.  "Erik?" Christine called softly, "would you sing to me tonight?"

He turned from the newly lit fire and silently seated himself at the piano, unable to think of anything he could play.  Sensing his unease, Christine said quietly, "I remember the first time you brought me down here, Erik.  I was so nervous.  There was a song you'd written, the one you called your 'night music'.  Do you remember?"  

Erik nodded, his heart hammering.  

"Would you play it again for me?"

She sat beside him on the bench as his graceful, elegant hands bore down upon the black and white keys, and he sang for her as he had before, in his unearthly beautiful, deep, expressive voice.

_"Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation,_

_Darkness stirs, and wakes imagination._

_Silently the senses abandon their defenses_

_Helpless to resist the songs I write_

_For I compose the music of the night._

_Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendor;_

_Grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender._

_Turn your face away from the garish light of day _

_Turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light_

_And listen to the music of the night._

_Close your eyes and surrender to you darkest dreams!_

_Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before!_

_Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar_

_And you'll live as you've never lived before._

_Softly, deftly, music shall caress you._

_Hear it, feel it, secretly possess you._

_Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind_

_In this darkness which you know you cannot fight,_

_The darkness of the music of the night._

_Let mind start journey through a strange new world;_

_Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before._

_Let your soul take you where you long to be!_

_Only then can you belong to me._

_Floating, falling, sweet intoxication._

_Touch me, trust me, savor each sensation._

_Let the dream begin, let your darker side give in _

_To the power of the music that I write,_

_The power of the music of the night._

_You alone can make my song take flight,_

_Help me make the music of the night."_

As the last of the chords echoed away Christine sighed and rested her head on his shoulder.  "Erik, I'm tired.  Let's go to bed," she whispered.

"Damn it, Christine, do you know what you are asking me?" he said in agony.

"I want you to love me, Erik.  I want to be close to you, to be with you the way a husband and wife are close,' she said with a trembling voice.

He turned away, averting his head in pain, and opted for the truth, praying she would understand.  "Christine, I've traveled Europe and the East.  I can write music.  I'm a good architect and skilled builder.  I'm even a passable electrician and a tolerable poet.  But I have no idea how to love you, and I'm so afraid of hurting you," he whispered.

Hearing his distress, Christine leaned her cheek against his warm, broad back and twined her arms about his taut waist.  "I don't know how either, Erik, but you have never hurt me, and I don't think you would hurt me now."  She laughed softly.  "We'll just have to learn together."

Erik turned and grasped her hands, looking deeply into Christine's blue eyes.  "My love, are you sure?"

She could only nod in mingled apprehension and shy yearning.  Erik rose soundlessly and gathered her into his arms, holding her close, then lifted her easily, cradling her against his chest.  Christine clasped her hands around his neck as he carried her to the Louis-Philippe bedroom, his adoring eyes never leaving her face.

He lowered her gently to the carpeting inside her bedroom and knelt to stir up the fire.  Christine walked to her dressing table and began to remove the pins that held her long hair in place, dropping them with tiny metallic chimes on the satiny wood of the table.  Erik came to stand behind her chair, and when the last comb and pin was removed, took the silver hairbrush from her hand and began to gently brush out her dark curls.  Christine shivered at the accidental touch of his hands against her face and neck as he smoothed her long hair, then carefully swept it aside to kiss her neck.  Erik's hands touched her shoulders, her face, her throat with tentative, delicate caresses, leaving a trail of incandescent cool fire across her collarbone and along the delicate bones of her face.  Christine drew a deep breath of anticipation, feeling her skin come alive with a longing she could put no name to.

She stood then, coming willingly toward him across the soft ivory carpet, offering her body to his embrace.  Erik caressed her as through she were as fragile as glass and insubstantial as smoke.  Christine reached up and softly lifted the mask away, placing it gently on the dressing table and stood on tiptoe to touch her lips to his forehead, his scarred cheek, and then his mouth.  His shaking hands began to undo the unfamiliar fastenings of her dress, sliding the sleeves and bodice down her arms, and releasing the ties of her petticoats until she stood before him only in her chemise.  Blushing, Christine stepped gracefully from the pool of garments and raised her own hands to the cord of his dressing gown, untying it and pushing the robe back from his shoulders.  He stood as if frozen, his eyes glittering, and black with both fear and desire as she removed his waistcoat and slowly unbuttoned his stiff white shirt, sliding her hands along his ribs and pressing her lips against the pale skin of his bared chest.  Erik quickly freed his arms from the pinioning fabric.

He twisted, reaching to the candles and rapidly extinguished their wavering golden light, but not before Christine saw the lines of old scars that intersected each other across his broad muscular chest and back.  She stepped closer to him, her hands gently tracing the marks of pain and degradation.  He flinched and her eyes filled with tears.  

"Oh, my love, what happened?"

Erik ground his teeth together with humiliation.  "Many years ago, I was assaulted by men who saw me only as a monster, a freak of nature.  They beat me until I passed out from the pain.  When I awoke I found myself chained inside a cage.  I was forced to perform in front of jeering crowds.  If I refused, they used the whip or a club until I was more….cooperative."

"Oh, my God, Erik," she whispered, horrified, "I'm so very sorry.  I never knew."  

Erik looked away, unable to bear the grief in her face.  "It doesn't matter now.  It was over a long time ago," he said almost inaudibly. 

But Christine read the truth in his eyes and pressed her body close to his, kissing him once again, deliberately tracing the worst of the wounds with her lips, hoping somehow the love that she felt would bring him absolution and healing.

He felt a swell of emotion so deep for her acceptance of his hateful body that he thought his heart would surely burst.  Erik shut his tear-dampened eyes and dipped his head, trailing his lips up the smooth column of her throat, seeking her warm, responsive mouth, then turned her away from him, untying the remaining ribbons of her silk chemise and drawing it down over her ivory shoulders, kissing the bare flesh revealed.  Impatiently, Christine stepped out of it and let it fall, looking up to find he had stripped away the last of his own clothing.  They looked at each other for an endless eternity of seconds, each shy and daunted by the searing passage of the other's gaze.  Christine stepped toward him shyly, fitting her body against him, learning for the first time the pleasure of another's warm flesh against her own.  Erik's arms tightened around her, craving the smooth softness of her scented skin against his enflamed body, inhaling her scent.

"You are so beautiful," he whispered.  "The feel of you against me…  How can I ever show you what you mean to me?"

In response, she raised her face to his again, tasting the edges of his lips and mouth, caressing his scarred face, kissing him until his arms had gone tight and his breathing ragged.  His stormy eyes told her better than any words that he was nearing the end of his self-imposed control, then Erik swept her into his arms and gently laid her down on the bed, lowering himself beside her.  His long elegant hands caressed her body, becoming more sure of himself, listening to her gasps and sighs as he found new sensitive areas.  Christine drew him down to her, kissing him passionately while his hands continued to worship her body, learning, fondling, and arousing her more with every passing second.  

Afterward, they clung together for several moments, coming down from that whirling plane of sensation, then Erik carefully lowered himself to her side, gathering her against his warm body.  Christine nestled against him, pillowing her head on his shoulder, awed at their intimacy and feeling suddenly shy.  Erik caught her hand in his own and clasped it to his chest.

"I did hurt you, after all," he mourned, his dark eyes distressed.

Christine freed her hand and placed loving fingertips against his lips.  "I think it's normal for a woman's first time.  The next time won't be so bad."

He stared at her in wonderment.  "The next time?"

Christine snuggled closer, wrapping an arm around his waist.  "The next time, my love.  Perhaps then I'll get to wear that gorgeous nightgown Meg and I spent days shopping for."  She smiled privately, imagining his reaction when he would first see her wearing it.

Erik reached down and drew the covers over them both.  "You mustn't become chilled," he murmured, but then hesitated.  "Christine, am I to stay here with you tonight, in your room?"

"Of course," she answered, puzzled.  "I've wanted for so long to wake up lying next to you.  Why do you ask?"

He lay back against the smooth linen sheets, frowning at the ceiling.  "Habit, I suppose.  I do not want to ever take you or your wishes for granted."

Christine propped herself up on one elbow, dark curls sliding across her bare shoulder and turned his face toward her own.  "Erik," she said gently, "I'm told that's one of the blissful things about being married, that you _can take the other for granted, somewhat.  You don't have to worry whether I'll be there, or if I'll want you near.  The answer is yes, yes, and always yes."_

Accepting this, he opened his arms to her again, cradling her soft body next to him, unable to believe his fortune.  "I do love you so much," Erik said quietly.

She curled against him.  "I know.  And I love you too."

Erik smiled.  "I know."  He extinguished the remaining candle and they slept.

Christine awoke first in the morning, somewhat surprised to find her husband still abed.  She lay in the warm comfort of his embrace, feeling his gentle exhalations on her bare shoulder.  Erik's face was peaceful in sleep; relaxed and unguarded for the first time she could remember.  She raised a hand and lovingly brushed his dark hair back from his eyes.  Carefully, she rolled away from him and lit one of the candles on her bedside table.  

The unmarred side of his face was turned toward her and Christine wondered if he had deliberately chosen to place her on this side of him.  She gently traced the line of an old scar with her fingertip.  He had been hurt so often in the past, and he was no longer young.  Sudden tears threatened to overwhelm her with a fiercely protective need to keep her husband safe from the world.

"What are you thinking?" came his deep worried voice from the pillow beside her.

Christine blinked back tears.  "How much I love you."

Erik frowned, not understanding.  "And that makes you sad?"  Cautiously, he pulled her close and she wound her arms tightly around his body.  Erik smoothed back her hair and tipped her chin up to meet his eyes.

Wordlessly, Christine held his face in her hands, kissing him softly to allay her fears.  Erik's hands moved gently over her back, stroking her trembling shoulders.  "It's silly, I know," she whispered, "but I'm so frightened of losing you."

He took her hands and covered them with his own.  "I'm not going anywhere, my love, except perhaps in the kitchen to make us some tea and breakfast," he said lightly.

"Not for a few more minutes, I hope," Christine said, snuggling against him, realizing this might be a painful topic.   

Erik tucked the sheet and blanket firmly around her bare shoulders.  "How do you feel this morning?" he asked solicitously.  

She frowned, concentrating inward.  "A little sore, but that's all.  It truly was worth the pain, Erik."  Idly, she kissed his lower jaw, her small hand tracing patterns on his chest.

Thinking about their first night together, Erik felt the need growing in him again.  "Christine," he whispered, uncertain how to ask.

Blushing, her hand stroked the hard muscles of his broad chest under the bedcovers and Erik tensed.  _Someday, my love, you will not panic when I touch you,_ she thought.  Erik leaned up on one elbow, bending over to brush his lips against her own.  Christine's loose dark curls spilled down around her bare shoulders and he gazed lovingly at her, desiring her more with each passing minute.

This time, there was no pain.

@}~--'--,---'---,----

_I'd kiss you, if I dared_

_I want to, but I'm scared._

_I should have known, _

_I've been alone too long._

_My lips are much too still_

_My arms have lost their skill_

_My charm has flown_

_I've been alone too long._

_It's been years since I have_

_Whispered a foolish love word_

_And I'd be afraid I'd _

_Sing you a faded song._

_But if you smile and then_

_Say "Darling, try again,"_

_I'll know you've known_

_I've been alone too long._

_Alone Too Long_

_D. Fields and A. Schwartz, 1954_

(Author's End Note)—An "enhanced" version of this chapter is available, but is not posted here due to the necessary rating level.  If you are over legal age, you will find Erik and Christine's story posted on my website .  I'm not sure if you can see the address here, due to the nature of the fanfiction upload protocols, but if you'll click on my name at the top of the story, it will take you to my directory listing, and will give you the website address there as well.

Do stop by and sign my guest book!  Don't forget to read the next chapter posted here, however! 

@}~--'--,---'---,----


	10. Chapter 8 Toward the Future

Only one more chapter to go after this one….  You are almost out of chances to read and review this little story.  Please, I beg you, do so!

Many, many thanks to my fanfiction friends who review so kindly—Midasgirl, Dreamer, Lavender, L'Ange de Folie, Soldier of Darkness, Kristen, Narsil, Erin, and Paula.  You know you make my day!  **: )**

And of course, **The Usual Disclaimer—**These characters who twine themselves about my thoughts and come to live again on the pages of these stories are not mine.  They are inspired by, and belong to, Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay, and Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber, the RUG, and their heirs and assigns.  I merely seek a new ending for them, and get to correct the errors I fail to catch the first time around….

**Chapter 8—Toward the Future**

The next week passed in a period of calm domesticity.  Each night, Erik and Christine loved each other with increasing confidence and ardor.   To awaken beside his wife, to watch her sweet face as she slept by his side, to see the love light in her eyes as she turned to him each morning brought Erik a transcendent joy and gradual peace as their love grew deeper, rooting in mutual trust and affection.  Christine was gently insistent he not wear the mask inside their home.  Though at first he was apprehensive and uncomfortable with this request, there was never anything but acceptance and love in her eyes when she beheld his unmasked visage, and Erik reveled in this newfound freedom.

They risked going out in the evenings several times, with Erik wearing his wide brimmed hat angled to conceal his face.  Arm in arm they walked through the Bois under the trees, along the gardens, and by the river paths.  On occasion they would hail a carriage and ride through the city.  When evening came they sat before the fire, reading and talking, playing chess, and singing together.  Slowly their lives settled in a routine.

One day Erik found his clothing and personal items missing from the organ room.  Cautious investigation while Christine was at rehearsal found them in the formerly empty mahogany wardrobe of the Louis-Philippe room, and arranged on the little table on 'his' side of the bed.  Satisfied she had not overlooked anything, Erik shut forever the organ room door.  That evening Christine's eyes dared him to comment on her trespass, and he merely chose to kiss the top of her head.  Never again did he ask permission to stay the night in her arms. 

Christine had informed the management of the Opera that she had married, but other than that, said very little about her change in status.  Adele Giry and Meg took it upon themselves to quell the various rumors about her invisible husband.  Meg happily provided corroboration in the form of descriptions of the wedding scene at the de Chagny estate, detailing Christine's lovely dress and her husband's gray suit, the cake, gifts, and reception.  They had kept the wedding intimate, for Christine wanted no publicity.  Mme. Giry said only Christine's husband had met her at the Opera, which was certainly true enough, and that she had been seeing him for some time.  When pressed, she admitted he was a composer and an architect, that they had come together through their mutual interest in music.  Eventually, the speculation died down and was no longer a nine day's wonder.  Christine continued to perform or appear in the few remaining events in the Opera's spring season.  Meg had casually mentioned the couple would be taking their honeymoon later on.  As the singer was obviously happy, and wore a wedding band, people slowly accepted her story, at least on the surface.

Erik did not greet her at the door, as was his custom, one day after rehearsal.  Christine found her husband hunched over the wide library table used as a desk in his study, putting the finishing touches on a drawing of a façade meant for a restaurant.  For once, he was wearing only his faultlessly white starched shirt, its sleeves neatly rolled up, the waist coat and jacket lying on the floor where he had cast them off.  

 "Mood Indigo Café?" she read over his shoulder.  He darted her a quick glance, his skilled hands writing assuredly over the drawing.  Christine dropped a kiss between his shoulder blades and stepped over to the bench where an unfamiliar black leather case lay open.  At his nod, she carefully removed the sheets of wide paper from within.  Architectural drawings and drafts came to view.  Theatres, concert halls, galleries, tombs, homes, a bridge, random pediments and facades, support structures, and several intricate line drawings with suggested scales and measurements met her sight.  Amazed, Christine leafed through them, feeling the intensity of his burning gaze. 

"Erik," she said slowly, "even I can see these are wonderful.  When did you do them?" 

He relaxed slightly at her praise, then caught her hand and drew her back into the circle of his arms.  "Christine," he said intensely, "lately I have had some old dreams awaken.  With you by my side, I believe I might be able to pursue them.  I would like to practice my architecture again.  These drawings," he indicated the pile spread on the bench," are some from many years ago.  Occasionally, when I had tired of music, I would design fantastic buildings, even though I knew no one would ever see them.  I would like to do a theatre, someday.  I've lived so long here; I think I could plan a good one indeed."

"Oh, Erik," Christine said, eyes glowing, "that would be marvelous.  But how?"

"I do not know," Erik said, frustrated, raking a hand through his dark hair.  "I would have to start again with an established architect, oversee construction, order materials, make site visits.  I don't see how I _can.  Too much time has passed since last I was out in the world."  He turned away from her, his expression bitter.  "Christine, I do not wish to delude myself with fantasies.  Even as a younger man working here on the Opera, it was….very difficult for me.  I learned quite a lot from M. Garnier, and I am certain he would remember me, but he would also remember the problems I caused, with my cursed appearance."_

Hating the resignation in his tone, Christine slid her arms around his tense body, holding him close.  Slowly, Erik's right arm moved around her shoulders and he hid his face in her hair, stroking her back.  "You are the only light in my world," he whispered bleakly.  _I will never be free of this darkness._

In his flat in the Rue de Rivoli, Nadir Khan shivered irritably in the raw spring weather as the evening fell.  The weeks he had spent in the southern Mediterranean had not been long enough to avoid a return to a Paris still damp.  He would never get used to this wretched climate.  Nadir glanced at the stack of unread mail that had accumulated in his absence and ignored it in favor of a newspaper plucked randomly from the pile.  He skimmed the information, then out of habit more than anything else, read the Arts section.  A name leapt out at him and he slowly re-read the article. 

 "Opera Populaire….successful debut of Giuseppe Verdi's _Aida_…first performed in Egypt….Christine Daaé—Sacerdotessa."

Christine Daaé—back at the Opera.  He sat heavily in the parlor chair.  _Merciful Allah.  He dared not think what might have occurred in his absence.  After a few minutes reflection, Nadir Khan gathered his wool astrakhan coat and sent his manservant to hail a cab for the Opera._

In the library music room, Erik looked up as one of his alarm bells began to ring, this particular tone indicating someone was attempting to circumambulate the lake.  Christine put down her novel and stared at him, startled, and he patted her shoulder.  Erik rose and left the room, returning a minute later clothed in the Opera Ghost's cloak, hat, and mask, his face oddly calm.  "I will go see who it is.  Stay here.  Don't be alarmed," he told her reassuringly, but Christine noticed he locked the door behind him.

Nadir crept slowly along the edges of the lake with growing discomfort.  This dank, chill cavern and his growing sense of watchful darkness unnerved him.  For more than twenty years he had served as Erik's tenuous connection to the world outside the Paris Opera, a slender tether to humanity.  Dourly, he avoided the narrow ledge of rock that jutted out and appeared to provide a shorter route across the southern edge of the lake, knowing it to be too fragile to bear his weight.  Erik usually showed up somewhere along this route, stepping from the shadows to challenge his access, or often as a cold and bony hand on his shoulder, assisting him into the lake.  Warily, Nadir looked into the gloom, wondering if this time a certain lasso might tighten around his neck or shoulders, as was threatened the last time, but all was still.

_It was, of course, the ever-interfering Nadir Khan.  Erik smiled grimly to himself, melting into the shadows of a vertical crevasse. Had the man not saved his own life at great personal cost, the Daroga might have found his incessant curiosity to have been his downfall years ago.  Erik turned and climbed like a giant black spider along the channel carved by a long ago river, moving swiftly ahead of this uninvited guest.  He pulled the hat down low, concealing the porcelain white mask, his long cape flowing behind him in a sibilant whisper through the air, and returned to his home._

Nadir found himself sweating as he approached the regular entrance to the underground house.  It was very unlike Erik to have not put in an appearance by now.  It was, of course, possible he was out, but with Christine Daaé back at the Opera, Nadir did not dare think of what mayhem was probable.

That Erik had even fallen to the allure of the lovely singer had been, in itself, surprising.  The Erik Nadir knew was a man obsessed by secrecy and solitude, who nourished a deep hatred of humanity that bordered on phobia.  When Christine had finally left him last fall, Erik had alternated between destructive black rages and periods of depression so profound he neither ate nor slept for days at a time.  Throughout the whole ordeal, Erik had never been angry with the young woman, but had turned his rage and disappointment against himself in a self-immolating hatred.  Nadir had stayed with him for days and had checked on him for days after, fearing Erik might take his self-destruction to an extreme and do everyone a mischief in an effort not to feel the pain of her loss any more.

Erik swept in to the foyer, removing hat and cloak, and sought Christine.  She had not moved from her seat by the fire, trusting him to return to her.  Erik gently touched her hair and pale cheek as he walked by, no longer shy with his caresses of deep affection, and she looked at him questioningly.  He dropped into his favorite armchair, draping his arm negligently across the back of it, a long, lean elegant figure.

"Christine, my love, we are about to have our first visitor.  He is a man I have known for a very long time, since Persia, in fact.  He has appointed himself my conscience, and periodically checks up on me and my actions.  I think you will recognize him, though I doubt you have been formally introduced.  His name is Nadir Khan.  Once he was the _Daroga_, the Chief of Police at Mazanderan, in Persia, when we were both in the service of the Shah."

Christine nodded, absorbing this bit of news.  There was a tone of dry amusement in Erik's voice and her eyes began to dance.  "Shall I go make tea and be the good wife and hostess?" she asked him impishly.

Erik smiled slightly.  "Oh, yes," he said softly, eyes gleaming behind the mask.  "It is time I surprised him."

Nadir marched up to the limestone slab, indistinguishable from its surroundings and pressed the top right stone.  As always, it slid smoothly in, releasing the catch that held the masonry in place.  Erik opened the door smoothly before Nadir could knock.  "Welcome, Daroga," he murmured and stepped aside.  "Might I take your overcoat?"

Once in the warm foyer Nadir turned to look at his old enemy.  Erik was altered in some subtle way he could not name.  He wore a brocade waistcoat with color in it, a brilliant crimson and gold thread worked on a black background, with a soft white shirt below it.  Erik appeared to have put on a touch of weight, losing his skeletal thinness, and had lost also the unhealthy sallow look to his skin.

"My dear Daroga, would you like to come into my library?  That is, if you have completed your examination of my person?"

Eyes narrowed, Nadir studied him; even his demeanor was more relaxed.  For Erik, this was positively ebullient.  "Certainly, Erik, then you may tell me what you are up to."

"I assure you, Nadir, I am not 'up to' anything," Erik's deep voice said mildly behind him as they made their way down the paneled hallway and into the library music room.

A welcoming fire crackled on the hearth, though the rooms of the lair were always warm enough.  Nadir's eyes were riveted on the lissome young woman who rose as he entered.  It could be none other than Christine, wearing a deep blue dress with a subtle stripe in it that matched her luminous eyes.  Dark brown loose curls were pulled back with combs on the sides of her oval face.  Christine Daaé.

Erik walked to her side and took her hand, bringing her forward.  Christine studied Nadir's dark, mustached face and slightly Asiatic features.  "But of course!" she said suddenly.  "I have seen you around the Opera for some years now.  You are the man they call the 'Persian'."  She gave him a welcoming smile and held out her hand.  "I am pleased to meet you at last."

Nadir raised her extended hand to his lips, brushing a social kiss across her alabaster fingers.  Erik raised his visible eyebrow as she withdrew her hand, smiling.  "Christine, this is Nadir Khan, the former head of the Shah's most feared police force.  Nadir, may I present Christine de Becque, my wife," he said softly, savoring the words.

Christine blushed and took his hand, looking lovingly up into his masked face.  Nadir visibly started, staring at them both.  "Your wife?  Erik, when did this happen?  _How did this happen?"  He removed his dark red jacket and draped it across one of the tapestry armchairs, standing beside it.  _

Erik released Christine's hand and walked to the mantle clock, saying dryly.  "I regret I could not invite you to the ceremony, Nadir.  You were somewhere in the south of Europe at the time.  In answer to your question, it has been exactly eight days ago."

Astounded, Nadir Khan looked over at Christine.  "Mlle. Christine, is this so?"

She moved to stand beside her husband who then put an arm around her waist.  "Oh, yes, M. Khan.  Erik and I are indeed married," she confirmed, her musical voice soft.  "We were wed at the de Chagny estate last week."  Nadir noted the sparkling gold and sapphire ring on her finger, and the matching heavy gold band on Erik's left hand.  She smiled at him again, one corner of her mouth deepening into a dimple.  "Would you care for tea, Monsieur?"   At his dazed nod, she further inquired, "Do you drink that awful Russian stuff of Erik's, or would you prefer something different?"

"Russian will be fine, Mme. de Becque," he faltered.

"Please call me Christine," she said, bemused, leaving the room.  "Erik, I think your friend could use something stronger than tea to drink."  

Erik threw back his head and laughed, causing Nadir to look at him in astonishment.  "Admit it, Nadir, I have finally surprised you."  He looked delighted as a small boy.  

Nadir Khan settled back into the chair, accepting the cognac his old nemesis offered.  "Very much so, my friend," he admitted, shaking his head and stretching his legs to the fire.  "So tell me, please, how this came to be."

Erik dropped lithely into his own chair and simply related the events of the last few months.  "She returned to me, Nadir," he finished softly, "willingly, with her eyes and heart open, she came back to me.  And she married me.  Me.  I would never, never have thought this possible.'  He shook his head in awed wonderment.

Nadir swirled the amber liquor around in the glass, thoughtfully studying the man opposite.  "What will you do now, Erik?  You have your heart's desire, but somehow, I cannot see you being content with that.  The two of you will have many years together; will you live them out in these rooms under the Opera?" he asked shrewdly.

Restlessly, Erik stood before the fire, hands behind his back.  "I have given matters a great deal of thought, in recent days.  I cannot ask her to remain here in this underground world.  The damp and cold of the passages are not healthy; she may take a chill, and it is not good for her voice.  Yet, where else can we go?  I can afford to purchase us whatever home and gardens she might prefer, but how will we find it?  Even as my wife she cannot sign the contracts; therefore I must go with her.  I do not know how to proceed."  He shook his head, visibly frustrated.

Nadir set down the fragile crystal glass carefully on the low table.  "You are certain you have sufficient funds for the purchase of property, Erik?"

"Yes, yes," he said impatiently, waving a dismissive hand in the Persian's direction.  "I still have most of the…compensation…from the Shah, and of course, my 'salary' from the Opera.  We would live very simply; it is not as if we would be giving lavish parties for the elite society of Paris," he said derisively.

Christine entered the room, carefully depositing a brass-handled tray on the polished low table.  Nadir's jade green eyes followed her graceful movements approvingly and he felt Erik's sardonic gaze.  She drew up a tufted footstool beside Erik's chair and proceeded to pour the steaming tea into delicate porcelain cups.  

"Thank you, my dear," Erik murmured, stooping to add a twist of lemon rind to his cup.  Christine sipped at her tea, made a face and added sugar, stirring vigorously.

"I don't know how you drink this," she said wryly.  

Holding the cup steepled between his elegant hands, Erik looked fondly down at where his lovely wife sat.  "Nadir and I were just discussing the future, my love.  Have you any thoughts on the subject?"

She leaned her curly head against his knee, thinking.  Nadir watched them, absurdly pleased with their demonstrated affection for each other.  Most Frenchmen would never have thought to ask their wife's opinion on any subject, nor would it have occurred to an Easterner.

"I would love to have a real house, and gardens, somewhere here in Paris," Christine said slowly, choosing her words carefully.  "Surely in one of the _arrondissements there must be a _maison individuelle_ with a bit of land, perhaps even walled gardens, where we could have our privacy, where my husband could walk in the sun without fear.  We do not need anywhere large, and we would not want servants.  It would need to be somewhat close to the Opera."  She shrugged.  "I do not know; I have never thought of a home before now.  Papa and I, then I alone, have always lived in rented rooms or flats."_

Erik dropped a hand to her head, caressing her soft hair gently as she spoke, his eyes sad.  "I am sorry, my love."

She turned, covering his hand with her own.  "Don't be, Erik.  I accepted this when you asked me to marry you, but I cannot help wishing we could be more free."

Nadir cleared his throat uncomfortably, not wishing to intrude.  "I can, perhaps, solve part of your dilemma, Erik.  If you would grant me leave to do so, Darius and I could search for you a home.  We could take Mlle. Christine with us to approve any we find suitable," he offered hesitantly.

Christine turned to her husband, eyes alight with hope.  "Erik?"

He looked down at her, a long wordless communication.  At last he said quietly, "I do not know.  I have lived here many years, since the Opera was constructed.  To begin again…."  Erik stared into the fire, his fist clenched.  

Nadir leaned back, touching his fingertips together.  "Yes, that is the central issue, Erik.  It is not so much whether or not a suitable house can be found, but whether you will be willing to rejoin the world of men."

Christine stiffened in outrage and felt Erik's hand tighten briefly on her shoulder.  "Nadir, I am not certain the world will want me to rejoin it," he snarled.  "I did not abandon the world of men, it abandoned me."

"Perhaps.  But you must not think only of yourself, Erik.  There is your wife to consider as well," Nadir said quietly.

"For Christine I would do anything.  Yet to go back out into the world, into society…."

The young singer laid her small hand gently over his fist.  The hesitation in her husband's voice told Christine how deep was his almost tangible fear of public scrutiny, of the horrified stares and mocking jeers that accompanied him on his lonely forays above ground.  Even if they did manage to find a home, Erik would be a virtual prisoner within it, unable and unwilling to leave the grounds.  At least here in the Opera, he had the freedom to traverse its halls, to attend the evening performances hidden within the shadows of Box Five, or to seek the seclusion of his home.  Here he could watch her perform or rehearse, could eavesdrop on conversations, would occasionally speak with Mme. Giry.  Anywhere else, it would only be the two of them.  Could she truly leave her Erik alone for hours at a time, while she went out to the Opera, or to visit friends?  Sadly, Christine rubbed her cheek against his hand. 

Erik saw the brief glimpse of unhappiness in Christine's face before she resolutely lifted her chin.  She shamed him with her courage and her love, her choice to stay below in his world of darkness to spare him the discomfort of the world above.  He looked over at Nadir and said quietly, "Find us a home, my old adversary, then truly you will have your final revenge against me.  For my wife's sake I will do this, even if it cost me dear."  Erik swiftly disentangled his fingers from Christine's and left the room.  They heard the door to his study close behind him.

Christine took two rapid steps after Erik, then stopped, tears filling her eyes.  Nadir too had risen, and now stood uncomfortably watching the lovely pale woman before him.  Slowly, she turned and sat on the piano bench, helplessly touching the closed wooden cover as if it would bring her comfort.  "I don't know what to do, M. Khan.  I love him so much, and yet so often it is not enough.  I can't heal him of the wounds of his past, and I don't know how to help him into the future," she said, throat aching with the effort to check the unshed tears. 

"Please, you must call me Nadir.  'Monsieur Khan' sounds so…inappropriate, somehow."  He drained the remains of his cognac and looked through the swirled glass at the fire.  "I have known Erik many, many years, Mlle.  I know his mind, but I do not know his heart.  There is not a braver man alive, I think, and with your help he will learn to live in the world again.  Whether you know it or not, you have been good for him; you have restored his humanity."  Nadir fell silent, watching the crimson, amber, and golden flames.

Behind him, Christine sat quietly at the keyboard, gently touching the neatly ordered stacks of music and notes that habitually lay atop the surface of the fine instrument.  "Monsieur.…Nadir…was it you who put the notice in the paper, the one that said 'Erik is dead'?"

He nodded tiredly.  "Yes.  And it was I that found a man beaten to death in the streets, his body unclaimed.  We dressed him in the Opera Ghost's clothing and left him in the lake.  Whoever he was, he received more of a burial that way than he would have otherwise."  Nadir shook his head.  "Your leaving nearly killed him, Mlle. Christine.  I thought surely he would do himself or another some harm in his frenzy.  But Erik's faith in you, and his love for you is strong.  He will go out into the world again, should you ask it, and he will survive, because you will be there with him.  I do not think it will be so hard, this time.  So many men have returned from the wars, from the torture chambers of the Commune….damaged….that he will not seem so unusual.  Perhaps if he becomes established again as a composer, or as an architect or an engineer the two of you will have a normal life."  

Picking up his coat, Nadir Khan surveyed the pale young woman.  "Forgive me for speaking to you so plainly, when we have only just met.  The men of my country do not hide behind soft words.  I believe you have the determination to see this through.  May Allah guide your path, Christine Daaé de Becque."

She rose gracefully from behind the piano and held her slim hands out to him.  "Thank you, Nadir.  You will look for us a house?"

"I will."  His mouth twisted slightly, and there was a fleeting expression of regret in his eyes.  "Erik is a….fortunate man, Mademoiselle.  I too have known the love of a woman.  Good day."

"Good day," she whispered, staring after him.

@}~,--`--,--`--,--`---

_You walk past me   
I can feel your pain   
Time changes everything   
One truth always stays the same   
You're still you   
After all   
You're still you   
  
I look up to   
Everything you are   
In my eyes you do no wrong   
And I believe in you   
Although you never asked me to   
I will remember you   
And what life put you through   
  
And in this cruel and lonely world   
I found one love   
You're still you   
After all   
You're still you_

_You're Still You__--2002_

_Josh Groban_

A/N—did anyone catch the reference to Erik's last name?


	11. Chapter 9, Part I Changes

This is the last chapter, here in Parts I and II, of _Red Rose, and therefore will be your last chance to review.  If you have been putting it off, please don't any longer.  I would like to hear from you!_

A final set of roses to my faithful and beloved reviewers of the last chapter—Midasgirl, L'Ange de Folie, Lavender, Soldier of Darkness, Kates, Ash, and new reviewers Chicketieboo and Shadowling.  Thank you for all of your helpful and insightful comments!  And of course, for the compliments.  I enjoy the compliments….!

Lavender—thank you for the review of my little short story!  I appreciate it!

A certain part of this chapter is dedicated to Midasgirl, who wanted more angst, and to Dreamer, who thought a certain someone was far too happy and needed stirring up…

And of course, **The Final Usual Disclaimer—**If I haven't made it clear by now, let me assure you that these characters who entwined themselves about my thoughts these past several months and came to live again on the pages of these stories are not mine, nor shall they ever be, with the exceptions of Odile, Suzette, Helene, Jules, and Stephan from Chapter 2, and Jacques Lachaille, Michael Vernier, David Carron, Father Lavigne, and Jules Charmin from chapters 8 and 9.  They are inspired by, and belong to, Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay, and Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber, the RUG, and their heirs and assigns.  It has been a pleasure to seek a new ending for them, but not to correct the errors I failed to catch the first time around….

A/N--The timeline, incidentally, is accurate.  The Suez Canal was completed in 1869, and at the time of my story, construction had not yet begun on either the Eiffel Tower or on the Statue of Liberty.  Ferdinand de Lesseps, A. Gustave Eiffel, and Charles Garnier were all real people, though to my knowledge, none ever worked with a gifted architect named Erik… 

**Chapter 9  Changes and Epilogue**

**Part I  Changes**

The thin, curly-haired man attired in a camel-colored suit and surrounded by Messieurs André and Firmin walked slowly up the Grand Staircase, gazing about the splendid entrance, and then disappeared through the east doors.  Watching the managers observing every social protocol brought a curve of amusement to Christine's lips as she turned to her friend.  

"My, my.  Who is he?  Visiting royalty?  I've never seen the management look so…so..."

"Toadying?" put in Meg helpfully and Christine laughed.

"No, I was thinking something more polite.  Obsequious, perhaps," she smiled.  "Who is he?  I've not seen him around here before."

Meg shrugged, not really caring.  "A new patron of the arts, perhaps?"

"He is Sir Charles Garnier, the architect who designed and built the Opera," came a dry, measured voice behind them, and Meg jumped.

"Mamman!  I did not hear you!"

"Obviously, or you would not have been quite so ill-mannered," her mother returned, leveling a frown at her sunny daughter.  "Be off with you, Megan Giry, you still have to practice today!  Mme. de Becque," she nodded politely in Christine's direction, and continued her dignified progress toward the rehearsal rooms.

_Charles Garnier._  Christine looked after the men musingly.  Erik had mentioned a man by that name, an architect he had once worked with.  Odd, she had not realized he still lived in Paris.  Erik had spoken of him as though it had been many years ago.  Frowning thoughtfully, she turned and followed Madame Giry down the marble hallway.

M. Charles Garnier looked up from his desk in the corner study as his manservant approached.  

"There is a lady to see you, sir," he said calmly.

M. Garnier raised an annoyed brow.  "I am busy, Henri.  I see no one without an appointment," he said shortly.

The older man nodded.  "I have told her so.  She asked me to give you this note, if you refused to see her."  He handed the stiff, cream-colored paper to the architect.

Irritably, M. Garnier reached for the note and quickly scanned its few lines.

_M. Garnier—_

_I have come to ask you about an architect you once worked with during the construction of the Opera Populaire.  I am certain you will remember M. Erik de Becque.  It is on his behalf I beg an audience with you._

The note was unsigned.  For a moment M. Garnier paused, assailed by the memories of fifteen years ago, seeing again the shock of the other's face, and felt a stir of pity in his heart.  At the time, he had not done enough, had not been secure and established enough himself, to have helped the other, slightly younger man.  He looked up at his servant.

"It is a woman to see me, you said?" he asked slowly.  "Have her wait in the parlor, offer her some refreshment.  I will be there shortly."  He turned back to his monograph.

Christine Daaé de Becque refused the offers of sherry and tea, and Henri bowed out of the small room, leaving her alone on the satin-striped sofa.  She twisted the ivory handle of her parasol tightly in her hands.  Coming here might be a mistake, and if so, with luck Erik would never know of it.  She gazed about the room, seeing the signs of this man's success, the awards and oddities displayed in the curio cabinet.  A framed copy of his induction into the Institute of France hung in a place of honor, amidst photographs of his now famous buildings on one wall.  Would someone so famous aid them?  Pensively, she shook her head.

A well-dressed young woman rose gracefully to her feet as M. Garnier entered the room.  He studied her face for a minute in puzzled silence.  "Forgive me for staring, Mlle, but you look somehow familiar to me." 

With an answering laugh, the lovely woman gave him her hand, smiling at him with her large blue eyes.  "I am Christine Daaé, M. Garnier.  You have perhaps seen me on the stage at the Opera Populaire."

"Of course," he said immediately.  "I was there only weeks ago for a concert."  He seated her courteously in a carved walnut chair by the low fire and sat himself across from her.  "I admit to confusion, Mlle. Daaé.  When you sent me your note, I assumed you must have known of the…..personage of whom you spoke from the days of the Opera House construction.  Yet you would have been a child then.  How is it you know of this man, and of what did you wish to speak with me?"

She leaned forward, holding him with her intense gaze.  "M. Garnier, what do you remember about M. de Becque?"

He paused, thinking.  "M. de Becque came to me, Mlle. Daaé, in the spring of 1864, or was it '65?  He sent me a letter, and submitted plans to work on the design of the Opera.  His ideas were inspired, creative, his structural ideas sound.  I wrote him back and said that although the plans had already been long established, I would be happy to accept a man of his obvious skill on the engineering team.  After we…met," he said simply, "I had many doubts about working with M. de Becque, but I found he was every bit as intelligent and capable as his letters and plans had indicated.  He encouraged me not to give up during the years the Commune took over the Opera House, he refused to accept less than perfection from the workers.  After a time he became my night foreman and construction proceeded smoothly, in spite of the difficulties we had with the pumps and that lake…and the difficulties he had with the other men," the architect finished quietly.

Shaking the memories from his curly brown head, M. Garnier looked over at the young woman, who sat with tightly clasped hands listening intently.  "But why do you ask, Mlle.?  How is it you know the name of a man who died some seven or eight years ago now?"

Christine took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  "M. Garnier," she said quietly, "Erik de Becque did not die that spring, and he lives yet.  Life had become….unbearable for him, and he retired to live in…exile.  That is where I came to know him, Monsieur."  She paused, waiting for the other man to assimilate this information.

The architect regarded her skeptically, leaning back into his chair, stroking his mustache.  "Forgive me, Mlle. Daaé, but I find this rather hard to believe.  No man could live so far out of society, but that he could pretend to be dead these many years."

"This man could," she replied quietly.  "And you have said yourself, he had cause to."

"True," he admitted with a frown, "But I still do not understand what it is you wished to see me about."

She sighed.  "I have put matters badly to you.  M. Garnier, if M. de Becque had not been…deformed…what might his career as an architect and engineer been like?"

Charles Garnier rose and poured himself a glass of sherry, offering a glass of refreshment to his visitor, who once again refused.  "Mlle. Daaé, there is no doubt in my mind but that M. de Becque would have become one of the preeminent designers of our time.  His mathematics and engineering were of the first water, his designs brilliant.  I was truly sorry to lose him."  He waited patiently for illumination.  "I am a busy man, Mlle.  Tell me what it is you truly seek here."

In answer, his visitor reached into the small beaded handbag looped over her arm and removed a set of papers, handing them to the architect in silence.  Puzzled, he turned them over, then unfolded the crackling sheets and read the marriage lines that stated that M. Erik de Becque and Mlle. Christine Daaé had been wed some weeks ago.  Stunned, he looked up at her, folding the sheets and handing them back.  "He lives, then."

"Oh yes," she replied softly, replacing the sheets in her bag, "he lives.  Erik is my husband.  He would like, very much I think, to work again as an architect.  He remembers you with admiration, though he does not know I have come to see you."

She straightened her shoulders, looking at him imploringly.  "M. Garnier, I have come to you for advice.  I do not know how to help my husband, but he spoke of you well.  Do you know of some way he could work again as an architect?  He has continued to sketch ideas and plans these last few years, and you have said yourself he is brilliant. Can you not think of some way to help him?"

The architect turned and walked to the bow window facing the quiet street, hands clasped behind his back, seeing once again gleaming black eyes behind a masked face, eloquent hands sketching the ideas for the pumping apparatus to drain the lake, the mechanisms for using that water as ballast for the stage floor.  "Yes," he said heavily, "Perhaps I do know a way.  Bring him to me, we will talk.  This is possible, yes?"

The singer rose to her feet.  "I think so," she said breathlessly.  "_Merci tellement, M. Garnier.  I will be in contact with you."  She offered him her hand and he bowed low over it.  _

"Until then, Mme. de Becque."

He watched her departure down his front walkway and into the cab that stood waiting for her, before making his way slowly back upstairs, deep in thought.  It was entirely possible that he would never have completed the Opera Populaire, due to the misfortunes of warfare, the Commune, and the underground lake but for the brilliant and reclusive man of whom she spoke. Thoughtfully, he extracted a folded letter from the correspondence lying scattered on the desk.  Perhaps he knew of a way he could be of assistance after all.

True to his word, Nadir Khan sent Darius around to the various establishments that concerned themselves with property.  He and Darius spent a pleasant spring day driving by various _maisons in a hired coach, looking for the best compromise between convenience and privacy.   Many they rejected immediately, due to their obvious flaws, size, or accessibility.  Others had no gardens, or were too close to the street.  Late in the afternoon, the driver pulled up the horses in front of a long winding driveway between stone pillars and a gate.  Tall trees lined the driveway, and from here the muddy grounds looked bleak with the last traces of soiled snow and fallen leaves.  The house was not visible from the road and Nadir looked at it appraisingly.  That this quiet district was no longer fashionable was of no importance…._

 Darius stepped from the carriage and gave the brass bell on the gatepost a sharp tug.  After some minutes, a lanky young man came toward them, walking up to the gate.  Darius folded his arms and leveled an impassive gaze at the agent.

"I say, are you Monsieur Khan?" he asked cheerily.

Darius only shook his head one time, turning to open the carriage door.  Nadir stepped out.

"I am M. Khan.  What can you show us of this house?"

The young man held open the gate and swept off his hat as they walked by.  "Jules Charmin, at your service.  I'm afraid this is a bit of a rum 'un, sir.  Most people aren't interested in it."

He walked toward the house, continuing to talk.  "I'm sorry I wasn't here, like, to meet you—I was walking about the grounds.  Right nice bit of land, this, but the house is a bit awkward."

"In what way?" Nadir asked dryly, vaguely amused at this stork-like, earnest young man.  Darius merely looked at him balefully.

"Well, you see, the house is quite sound, structurally speaking, but it's a bit on the small side.  It was built a while back, say 1840 or so, and lacks the, well, _prestige _of a modern dwelling."  He leaned forward confidentially.  "There's only a few rooms, you see.  It must have been quite the house in its time, though," he added with a superior air.

M. Jules Charmin led them up the stone stairs and across the veranda where he unlocked the front door.  He stepped through, still chattering, but Nadir Khan stopped in the threshold, not listening, looking around.

"Thank you," he said dismissively to the agent.  "My servant and I will look around the house.  We will let you know whether or not it is suitable for our friends."

"Oh, yes!  You said you were acting as an emissary for friends that need a house in a quiet neighborhood.  I'll just wait out here in the sun, right?"

"Right," said Nadir.  "Darius?"  

The house was not small, but consisted of a few large rooms on the ground floor—a comfortable parlor, a kitchen, pantry, dining room, a large drawing room with windows that faced south, a smaller room whose purpose was not readily apparent but would do for Erik's study, and the entry foyer.  Stairs led up to the next floor, out into a wide landing that led to a large main bedroom, a sitting room, and four smaller bedrooms.  There was even an attic with tiny rooms that could once have been servants' quarters.  Nadir nodded slowly.  Perhaps this would do.

Darius reported back to him that water came into the house through a pump in the kitchen and through taps in the upper level.  He had examined the hearths and chimneys, the wide wooden floors, the foundations, walls, doorways, and other structural components of the house and felt they were all sound.  It should prove simple to run new gas and electrical lines throughout the dwelling.

Thoughtfully, Nadir asked Darius to look over the little structure that stood somewhat separate from the main house.  It appeared to be a stables with overhead quarters from this distance, and with a slight bow, Darius departed.  Nadir turned, slowly examining the house.  Though a man of very little imagination himself, he could easily see Erik and Christine living here.

The agent Jules Charmin sat with legs extended in front of him, arms folded, leaning sleepily against the wall.  Nadir gave him a look of exasperation, and turned to see Darius approaching.  He nodded once in approval.

Nadir prodded the dozing young man.  "We would like to bring one of our friends here tomorrow to look over the property.  Do you think you could manage that?" he asked dryly.

"What?  You think they might be interested?"  Suddenly the young man perked up and endeavored to look more sophisticated and professional.

Erik sat back into the shadows of the deep wing chair, silently listening as Christine spoke.  His hand, which had only a minute ago stroked her hair, fell still.  She felt him withdrawing from her, felt his tension growing.  "Erik?" she questioned softly.

"A house, Christine?  Nadir has certainly been busy with my affairs again."

"We did discuss this, the night he visited, Erik.  I know you weren't…happy…with his offer to find us a home, but I didn't think you were this opposed to it either," she said quietly.

"I cannot change the habits of a lifetime, Christine.  To live in a house, in the light, with people staring…"

She put her arms around him, holding him close.  "My love, we cannot live here forever," she said.  "I want you to come with me, to come out of the darkness."

He held her so gently, as though afraid his powerful arms and hands would do her harm.  "Christine, I cannot.  I tried for so long, to live in the world of men.  Years I endured their lacerating eyes, their pointed comments.  You would have me go back to that existence?"

She rubbed her cheek against his hair.  "No, Erik.  It would be different now; we'd be together.  Nadir says this house is set well apart from the street and from the other houses.  We could have our privacy, our freedom there.  You wouldn't be stared at."

"Freedom?" he repeated tonelessly.  "Is this home here a prison to you?"

"No, of course not, Erik.  I'm here with you willingly."  Christine took his face in her hands and gently kissed him.  "My love, I'm not trying to hurt you.  I want us to look at this house.  Perhaps it will not be what we need.  I'll go alone with them this afternoon and see it.  Will you come with me later, to see it as well, if I think it will do for us?"

"Yes," Erik said quietly, "if that is what you wish."  He made a movement as if to rise, and Christine slid off his lap.  He held her tightly to his chest, his black eyes gazing sightlessly over her head.  "I have work I must do, cara mia," he murmured finally, and released her.  Christine stood, feeling chilled, as she watched him cross the room and enter his study.

Erik sat heavily in the tall chair before his desk, thinking.  These past fortnights had been paradise; he was gradually learning to accept her love and devotion and no longer feared she would turn from him in revulsion or fear.  The joy and comfort of spending each night with her, lying close together, her arms around him, had brought him the first peace he had ever truly known.  Even the nightmares of his time spent in Persia and with the traveling fair had ended.  Somehow, Christine recognized that inside him lived an unwanted, abused child and a desperately lonely man.  Erik dragged a hand roughly through his hair and across his face, feeling the twisted ridges of scar tissue under his fingers.  Christine, his wife, was a child of the light, a golden glorious gift he had somehow won.  She had given up so much for him—the Vicomte, friendships, a normal life and home.  Surely he could try one more time for her sake, to live in the world of men, but she truly had no comprehension of what it was she was asking.

Nadir Khan stood still, watching Christine move throughout the house like one in a dream.  She trailed a hand along the wall of the drawing room, imagining shelves along the walls holding Erik's library and _objects d'art_.  The grand piano could be placed in front of the windows, where the sun dappled patterns of bare branches on the warm wood of the floor.  The mellow Oriental carpets would go well with these polished wooden floors, their armchairs by the fireplace just so, draperies at the windows….

Here, this room for his study, perhaps a new wallpaper in this room, a soft blue or green, with a matching carpet….

This room, obviously, for their bedroom, and this one for a guest, should they ever have one, and this, this little corner room with the wide window seat, would be perfect for a nursery.  Blushing, Christine resolutely forced her mind back to the present realities, aware of Darius and Nadir watching her with their dark eyes.

"I like it very much, M. Khan," she said softly.  "Erik can have his privacy here, and there is plenty of room for the two of us.  You said you believe the building is sound?" she asked.

He nodded and turned to the agent, who was watching Christine with a frankly admiring gaze.  "M. Charmin?  M. de Becque will want to see the house as well.  Could you meet us here, say later tomorrow night?"  He looked inquiringly at Christine, who frowned slightly and then nodded.

Jules Charmin leapt to his feet.  "Oh, yes, M. Khan, I can surely do that.  Shall I have the clerk draw up the papers and bring 'em with me tomorrow as well?"

Christine caught her lower lip between her teeth and then nodded hesitantly.  "Yes," she said, "do.  Although you realize my husband must still approve the property and the sale."

The agent smiled condescendingly.  "I know," he said, "But why don't you want to look the land over in the daylight?"

"M. de Becque rarely goes out during the daytime, M. Charmin," Nadir interrupted.  "He is a very busy man."

"Oh, I see.  In business, is he?" Jules said vaguely.  "Well, it makes no difference to me."

It was arranged that they meet with Nadir and the house agent the following evening to view the small estate.  Erik waited, haunting the shadows at the side of the carriage ramp along the Rue Scribe.   This busy evening street reminded him painfully that despite the spell of normality Christine wove on their time together alone, he would never dare walk openly in the light.  A minute later, a hired carriage pulled up beside the Opera, and Nadir Khan stepped out, scanning the concealing stone doorways and arches for them and Christine reached for Erik's cold hand.  "We're over here, Monsieur Khan."

The carriage stopped again in front of the stone gate pillars.  Christine sat beside her husband, still holding his hand tightly under a fold of her shirts.  Nadir Khan sat across from them, observing Erik's unvoiced tension and Christine's worried eyes as the two sat in near silence on the ride across town.  He opened the door of the carriage and stepped around to speak with the driver.  Erik rose silently to help Christine down from the carriage.  He pulled his wide-brimmed hat into position and folded his arms under the cloak

The agent Jules Charmin came towards them, then stopped, staring with open curiosity at the darkly garbed and impassive man standing beside the lovely woman to whom he had shown the house yesterday.  This masked stranger must be her husband.  Sensing his ill-mannered gaze the tall man turned suddenly in a swift powerful move, and the agent recoiled from the blazing black eyes that met his own.

"Show us this house, Monsieur Charmin," a deep, resonant voice pulsed toward him, vibrating with a barely concealed anger.

"Yes, yes," he stammered, "this way, _s'il__ vous plaît."  He turned and led the way to the gates, unlocking them and stepping through to avoid that rapier glare._

Christine looked up her at husband, feeling his smoldering anger at the younger man's rudeness.  With a sigh, she put her hand on his arm, standing close to him.  "It doesn't matter, Erik.  Don't think of him; let's look at the house."

Feeling flayed by the staring eyes of the house agent, Erik looked down at her, seeing her pleading expression, and the love and concern for his comfort mirrored there.  Forcing a faint answering nod, he tucked her small hand in the crook of his elbow and they strode past the gates.

Nadir Khan detained the agent at the road.  "No.  Let them go on ahead, for it is to be their house," he said.  Jules Charmin swallowed and nodded at the note of command in his voice.

Christine led Erik over the house, pointing out different aspects of the rooms, and he listened to her animated voice with growing amusement as she described her plans for each room.  The house was old and its interior damaged from neglect, but it was structurally sound.  Years as an architect and engineer came to his aid as Erik ran professional hands along walls and ceiling joists, brickwork and stone.  He ascended to the attic and stepped out briefly onto the roof, to the agent's horror.

"Look here, now, I can't have you falling off that roof, sir," Jules called out worriedly.  The lovely woman smiled suddenly, blinding him.  

"My husband is an architect and builder, M. Charmin.  Surely you must expect him to examine every aspect of this house before we consider its purchase!"

Jules Charmin shook his head, watching the tall man's cat-like grace as he dropped lightly to the upper veranda.  "He doesn't seem in any danger," he conceded reluctantly.  "Do you think he'll like this house?"

Her smile faded.  "I do not know.  The decision is up to him, of course.  Excuse me, please."  She entered the house again.

Christine found Erik in the large open drawing room, hands clasped behind his back, and staring out the bare windows.  He drew her into the circle of his arms silently.  "What do you think, my love?" she asked against his chest.

He brushed his cheek across her soft curls, listening to the hope in her voice.   "The house is well made, Christine, and is a good size for us.  I believe it may be even a bit larger than our present abode.  Do you like it so well?"

She pulled out of his embrace slightly, to look up into his dark eyes, hearing the underlying tightness in his voice.  "Yes, my love, I do," she said quietly.  "But Erik, your…comfort means more to me.  If you don't think this is a good choice, we'll keep looking."

Erik shook his head.  "No.  This is as good a place as any."  He carefully brushed her cheek with his long cold fingers, but she noted the slight tremor that betrayed his tension.  He turned to the Persian, who had been waiting silently.  "Nadir, will you act as my emissary in these matters?  I will sign the papers tonight, if possible, if you will agree to transfer the payment to the estate agents tomorrow on my behalf."

Nadir Khan bowed toward him.  "I would be honored, Erik."

He turned away, his mouth curved in a bitter facsimile of a smile.  "Yes, I'm sure you would."

Working over the course of a week, solely at night, they transferred the contents of the underground house to the small manor on the edge of town.  Darius procured a horse and wagon for the journeys, and muffled its hooves with torn pieces of blanket to keep the horse's shod feet from striking notice on the cobbled streets outside the Opera.  Erik stripped nearly everything from the rooms, marble, wainscoting and paneling, gas lights, parquetry, and bookshelves.  The remaining water and gas pipes they sealed off, as Erik wished to leave the lair as a place of retreat, should they ever need it.

He stood silently in the empty, chill space that had once been his library and music room.  So many memories echoed from its silent walls.  Here he had retreated from the harsh realities of the outside world; here he had composed his finest music.  Here he had brought a young and friendless singer, to shelter her from the pressures and affairs of the Opera.  Here he had wept, dreamed of another life, felt abandonment and despair, then dawning hope.

Christine walked to him, her face gentle with understanding.  "It's hard to say goodbye, isn't it, Erik?  I'll miss the underground house, too."

"My home is wherever you are, my love," he replied, but she did not miss the regret in his still face as he bid the underground house farewell.

Remaking the manor kept Erik very busy for weeks after their move, and somewhat to his chagrin, he found he enjoyed working about the house, handling the tools of his earlier trade again.  Each day when Christine returned home, she found another section completed.  Erik replaced the damaged wood of the walls with the satiny paneling and wainscoting from the underground house and Nadir sent Darius day after day to run errands for his friend.  The silent Persian manservant brought paper and paint for the walls, new heavy locks and bolts for the doors, window glass, electrical wiring and gas lines.  Slowly their new abode became very similar to the home they had left secured beyond the lake.

In the early summer Charles Garnier returned unexpectedly to the Opera House, and asked to see Christine Daaé.  His request stirred the management to a surprised reminder that Christine's elusive new husband was said to be an architect.  He requisitioned a small office in order to speak with her privately, and was granted this without delay.  Soon the young singer was ushered into his presence, her pensive expression giving way to a welcoming smile upon seeing the identity of her visitor.

"I have found your husband an engineer, Mme. de Becque," he said grandly, without preamble.  "I have taken the trouble to inquire as to his antecedents, and believe him to be the man with whom your husband can work.  His name is David Carron.  He has worked with both Messieurs Gustav Eiffel and Ferdinand de Lesseps, he is an engineer first-rate, and he is seeking an architect with whom he may start a business."

Christine clasped her hands together in an ecstasy of excitement.  "Monsieur Garnier, I thank you from the depths of my heart.  This means more to us than you will ever know."

The lauded architect and designer smiled.  "Should this partnership work I will consider my debt to your husband repaid, Mme. de Becque.  Monsieur Erik's assistance brought me to my present level of fortune, and I am most grateful to him.  Take then this letter to him, and if he approves, we will arrange a meeting between all concerned."  

Christine gave him her hand and he raised it briefly to his lips.  "Good day, Madame."

"Good day, and thank you," she said softly.

Hidden flower bulbs burst into bloom in the neglected gardens, trees came into full leaf, and birds and other small creatures filled the grounds.  Christine had requested that he enlarge the rear stone terrace so that they might eat their meals surrounded by their pleasant back garden. 

Erik leaned back on his heels, wiping the sweat from his forehead.  Years it had been since his hands had held these stonemason's tools, yet how easily the old skill came back.  He surveyed the low stone wall about the now completed terrace with satisfaction.  This cool verdant area was pleasantly appealing, a befitting setting for his beloved.  Cypress trees drooped their feathery green branches around the unevenly curved boundaries of the terrace, effectively screening it from any curious gaze of a neighbor.  The carefully tended rosebushes in the oval garden beyond the terrace brought their delicate scents to him on the golden breeze.  Christine would be very pleased, he thought, and rose to collect his scattered tools.

From inside the house he could now hear his wife, who must have returned early today from the Opera.  His facial muscles pulled themselves into a smile, for Christine's voice carried clearly to him through the open French doors along the terrace as she sang, her voice joyously happy.  He crossed the terrace with rapid steps as she came out and flung herself in his arms.

"Oh Erik!  I do love you so," she smiled up at him, her eyes sparkling and a flush of color along her damask cheeks.

"To what do I owe this exuberant display of affection, _mon__ amour?" he teased and she laughed up at him._

"My husband, come sit beside me and I will tell you of a visitor I had today at _L'Opera!" she smiled, drawing him down beside her on the wooden bench beside the ivy-covered wall of their house._

"I can see I will get no peace until I do as you ask," Erik replied dryly, his dark eyes smiling down at her.

For a moment she searched his face, assuring herself of his agreeable mood, for Erik's mercurial temper was not a thing to be trifled with.  Holding his hands in her own, she began.

"My love, some weeks ago a man came to walk about the halls of our Opera.  I had no idea who he was, but Mme. Giry told me he was a famous architect, a M. Garnier."  Beside her, Erik stiffened, his black eyes boring down in to hers, but he remained silent, letting her speak.  "I remembered you saying that you had once worked with him, many years ago, on the Opera itself, and I took the trouble to learn of his address."  She ducked her head and bit her lower lip, unsure how to confess her next actions.  "I went to see him," she said softly, not daring to meet her husband's eyes as his hands began to tighten painfully on hers, "and I told him who I was.  I asked if he remembered you, and if he knew of any way he could help you to work as an architect again."

Abruptly, Erik withdrew his hands from her own and stood, pacing quickly to the edge of the terrace and back again, his eyes blazing.  "Christine, what were you thinking?   I let him believe me dead long ago.  How could you tell him I lived?" he asked harshly.

"Erik, hear me out!" she answered sharply.  "M. Garnier spoke well of you, and expressed his regrets that you had chosen…to live apart from the world.  This afternoon he came by the Opera to see me.  He knows of an engineer that he thinks would be willing to work with you, a man who has experience working with a Monsieur Eiffel and with Monsieur de Lesseps.  He would like to arrange a meeting between you all, to see if this partnership might work out.  Will you at least give it some thought?"

He glared into the woods, raking his hand through his hair and forcing his temper into a simmer.  "Yes.  I'll meet with them.  But this must be the last time you do anything like this without my knowledge.  I am the better judge of how willing people are to work with me.  I have so much more experience with their reactions," he said bitterly.

She rose and came to stand behind him, placing a hesitant small hand on his back.  "All right, Erik.  I'm sorry if I angered you.  It just seemed providential that I meet M. Garnier as I did."  She slid her arms around his stiff, unyielding posture.

Erik turned slowly, pulling her close.  "Thank you, my love.  I know you are only trying to help."  He sighed.  "I will meet with them.  Send a note to M. Garnier and ask him if they would be willing to come here for dinner soon, and we will talk."


	12. Chapter 9, Part II Epilogue

**Part II  Epilogue**

Riding over in the carriage, David Carron looked across at his friend and mentor.  "What do you really know about this man, this Monsieur de Becque?"

"Not a great deal," admitted Charles Garnier, leaning back against the cushions.  "He is a native Frenchman, though he speaks several languages.  I know he spent some time out in the Mid-East, and that at some point he learned no small skill with tools.  Make no mistake, David, he knows the profession from the ground upward.  I've seen him step in and demonstrate to the workmen just exactly how the stone was to be laid or worked.  Electrical, gas, stonework, chemical, I never came across a field he was ignorant of, or a problem he could not solve given sufficient time.  I've even seen him perform skilled emergency care, once when we had a cave-in at the site.  I owe him the success of that building, you can be sure."

The younger man was silent a minute, quietly digesting that information.  "But you say his face is…misshapen?"

Charles Garnier gave the other man an oblique look.  "Yes, but you'll never see his deformity.  He wears, or at least he did back then, a mask to conceal his face.  I would not inquire about it, were I you.  He had a formidable temper back then."

"But he is married?"

The architect smiled.  "Very much so.  I think you will possibly even recognize his wife."

The carriage stopped before a small estate in an outlying quiet part of the city and the driver leapt down to test the gates.  They swung open silently at his push, and the two men inside disembarked from the carriage.

"We'll walk from here, thank you," David called up to the driver.  "Call for us again in three hours."

The man nodded agreement and touched the reins lightly to the horse's back, chirping at the animal.  The carriage drove off as Charles Garnier turned to his companion.  The younger man looked at him with a quizzical expression.  "Shall we?"  

They set off down the tree-lined, winding lane toward the house, barely discernable in the evening twilight.  From here, the music coming out of the open windows drifted seductively toward them out into the soft evening air.

"You didn't mention that he was a musician as well," David murmured, surprised.  

The architect shrugged.  "I didn't know.  But it makes a certain sense, for his wife is an opera singer.  Perhaps it is how they met."  They mounted the stone steps and stood a moment, listening to the sweet soprano voice and the accompanying rippling piano notes.  He raised a hand and seized the heavy brass ring of the griffin's head door knocker, and rapped it smartly several times.  Abruptly, the music inside ceased, and the faint patter of swift footsteps came tapping toward them.

The door opened and David found himself looking into a woman's expressive dark blue eyes.  Charles stepped past him into the softly lit foyer of a pleasant, gracefully appointed dwelling, greeting the young woman warmly and David followed suit, glancing about.  Smooth paneled walls gleamed golden in the soft lighting and a carpet of deep green ran the length of the room and up the stairs to the left.  Through open doors past the stairwell he could see a long piano in a formal room lined with laden bookshelves.  The lovely woman turned to him and smiled. 

"You must be Monsieur Carron."

He nodded and Charles Garnier hastened to make introductions.  "Mme. de Becque, this is the engineer of whom I spoke, David Carron.  M. Carron, Mme. Christine Daaé de Becque.  Mme. de Becque, where is Erik?  I have looked forward with much anticipation to meeting him again."

"As I have looked forward to greeting you as well."  David turned at the sound of that deep voice.  The somberly dressed man walking toward them looked like no musician, nor any architect that David had ever seen.  Tall, with wide shoulders and graceful hands, he gave the impression of tightly-leashed power and control.  Black eyes, blazing with intelligence and some stronger emotion contrasted sharply to the startling white porcelain mask which covered half of his face.

"Erik!"  Beside him, Charles stepped forward, his arm outstretched to that tall and intimidating figure.  

Erik reached out and clasped the architect's hand in his powerful grip, emotion flashing momentarily in his eyes.  "Charles.  Or perhaps I should say Sir Charles.  I read of your appointment some time back."  

For a moment the two faced each other, gripping each other's hands, then the architect shook his head.  "You ought not have left me, Erik.  I could have used your assistance on my next project."

"I had not much of a choice, my friend," he said dryly.

"It is of no consequence now.  Erik, I am truly glad to see you again, after all of these years.  And you are married!  And to such lovely bride."  

Christine blushed and Erik smiled slightly.  "My fortunes do seem to be improving.  Is this the engineer of whom you spoke?"  

"It is.  Erik, this is David Carron.  David, Erik de Becque."

Cool, faintly derisive eyes assessed him as David endeavored to meet that sardonic gaze.

 "M. Carron?" the other man said mockingly.  "Shall we go discuss why you are here?"

Erik led the way past the double doors that led into the library music room, soundlessly crossing the foyer to the smaller room that served as a parlor.  The four seated themselves comfortably and Erik offered the men vintage cognac.  David noted that this intimidating man chose a heavily carved black chair in the corner where he sat partially concealed in shadow, his black eyes watching the visitors with wariness.  He leaned back in his chair and templed his fingers; when he spoke, his tone was challenging.  "Do tell us about yourself, M. Carron."

"I am a graduate of the _École__ Centrale des Arts et Manufactures, and I have some experience in the building of railways, train stations, smaller churches, bridges, and viaducts," he said stiffly.  "I hope to be able to expand into theatres, concert halls, and centers of commerce soon, and it is with that thought I agreed to meet with you.  I regret you cannot ask M. de Lesseps about me personally, for he is currently with the _Compagnie___ Universelle du Canal __Interoceanique in Columbia, working on a new project, but I am certain that M. Alexandre Gustave Eiffel will speak most highly of my abilities."_

Erik waved a dismissive hand.  "I am not asking for a letter of introduction.  Charles' recommendation is sufficient."

Nettled, David asked, "May I see more of your work, M. Erik?  M. Garnier has shown me the engineering copies of your ballast and pumping mechanisms, as well as your designs for the proscenium arch and the grand tier."

Silently, the tall man inclined his elegant head in David's direction, then rose and left the room.  Christine turned to the rugged, deeply tanned engineer and smiled.  "Tell me about yourself, M. Carron.  Are you married?"

He was silent a moment, staring down into the amber liquor in his hand.  "Not any longer, Mme. de Becque," he said quietly.  "I left my wife and infant son buried out in Columbia.  She did not survive childbed.  I wanted to send her back home, to her family, but she would have none of it."  He drained the cognac in one swallow, raw pain in his voice.  "I couldn't bear to remain in the Americas any longer.  The malaria, the lack of amenities…" he shook his head.  "It was just too much.  I returned home to seek a position here.  It's my belief that canal attempt will fail anyway, and do please call me David."

She touched his hand gently, her voice and expression sad.  "If you will call me Christine.  I am so sorry about your family."

Their conversation was interrupted by Erik's return.  He carried a portfolio of drawings and plans and with a deft flicker of his fingers, spread them out across the low table.  The men gathered around the renderings, and the talk rapidly descended into a discussion of the technical aspects of architectural design.  With a smile, Christine placed her aperitif glass on the tray and slipped from the room to see about dinner.

By the end of the evening, David found himself no longer distracted by the sight of Erik's impassive face and grave demeanor.  The man's designs were brilliant, his mathematics superb, and his understanding of the underlying complexities of support thorough.  It was entirely possible that from a technical aspect, this partnership just might work, but it remained to be seen how it would function on a personal level.

The elderly, crippled tailor looked down once more at the bandbox in his hands and sighed.  His patron was due here tonight, as per their agreement, and he wondered if he would have the courage to actually go through with this idea that had come to him so suddenly a few weeks ago.  Reluctantly, he sat the small box back on the shelf.  He would simply wait and judge his client's mood.

Years ago, the enigmatic man had come to him, slipping silently through his darkened doorway late one evening.  His long body had been angled into the deep shadows of the recesses by the door, his height and the hat he wore pulled low over his face effectively concealing his identity.  

Jacques Lachaille had been startled and alarmed at this unexpected intrusion, for the political turmoil of the Commune had led everyone to walk in fear.  Then the man had spoken, and Jacques felt his fear lessening as his interest increased at the sound of that warm velvet voice, so filled with hesitancy.

The man had asked if he were a tailor, his tone implying that he already knew the answer, then inquired if he had time available to perhaps make a suit of clothing for a new customer.  At his assent, the stranger stepped hesitantly forward and cautiously raised his head.

The first sight of the white porcelain mask had effectively startled the tailor into silence.  His hands had tightened on the back of the chair, but he forced his voice to remain level as he watched this silent man.  He could not afford to turn away any custom in these dark days.

"Monsieur, you must tell me first what it is you want me to do, and you must be willing to pay a bit toward materials."

The black eyes of the stranger had narrowed a bit, but then he nodded abruptly.  "That is fair enough."

Through the years they had met often, whenever the man—he gave his name only as Monsieur Erik—had wished to replace or acquire new garments.  Jacques, while never completely comfortable in his presence, soon learned the man was unfailingly courteous, but unwilling to engage in social intercourse or answer any questions.  It became a pleasure to dress him, for the man's physique was superb, his taste in style or materials excellent, and he always settled his bills promptly.

Tonight he appeared silently, as was his wont, slipping quietly with his stealthy, inhuman grace into the shop, standing before the elderly tailor.  As always, he politely thanked Jacques for agreeing to his eccentric demands of meeting at this late hour.

After discussing his request for a half dozen new shirts, his patron turned to go, and Jacques steeled himself to go through with his plan.

"Monsieur Erik?" he said quietly, "Would you do me the courtesy of remaining here a moment?  I have something for you—a gift."

The tall man whirled, his cloak swinging out in a graceful arc around his lean body.  His black eyes narrowed watchfully.  "A gift?  You have no need to give me a gift, Monsieur Lachaille."

Jacques shook his head.  "True, but I have a wanting do to so.  You have been coming here for many years now, Monsieur; you are one of my oldest clients.  You have always paid me well, and far more than was needed for my time, my small skill, and for the materials.  I have never asked about your…face, Monsieur, but tonight I have a reason for doing so.  Will you bear with me?" he asked softly, seeing the anger flare in the other man's dark eyes.

Erik clenched his teeth, a muscle twitching in his jaw, schooling himself for patience.  This elderly man deserved his respect for his age and his years of service.  "Yes.  What is it you wish to know?"

Jacques swallowed and continued, determined to complete this, now that he had begun.  "Your mask—I assume it conceals some injury or deformity?" he asked carefully.

The black eyes glared as he answered in a short, clipped voice.  "Yes."

"May I also assume the…injury is long healed, and is not painful?"

"You may."

The tailor rose then and retrieved the small box from the shelf, feeling the icy gaze boring through him.  "Monsieur, I have taken a liberty, and for that I apologize," he said quietly.  "When you came here some weeks ago with your fiancé, this idea came to me.  I thought perhaps I could make for you a new mask, one that is not quite so…obvious, so that you might more easily walk with your lady in public." 

Erik drew in his breath sharply.  Whatever he had been expecting, it was not this.  Slowly, he reached for the box and lifted the lid.  Inside lay a mask, like his first gift from his mother, a gift it seemed to be his destiny to receive.  But this mask was different.  It assumed the same shape as his own, but was made of a fine, thin, supple leather, with a stiffened framework about the edges to retain its shape, and padded with soft material on the inside where it would lie against his face.  Two covered wires led from the edges, so that it could fit easily behind one ear and around the other side of his head, hidden in his hair.  But it was the appearance of the mask that astounded him into silence, for the leather had been tinted as close to a flesh tone as it was possible to make, and colored faintly with gradual tones to approximate his own skin.  It was a masterwork of artistry. 

He looked up, stunned and grateful for the elderly tailor's human consideration.  "Thank you," he whispered.  "I am more pleased than you can know for this gift.  How did you make it?"

Relieved that he had not angered this mercurial man, Jacques smiled.  "I cut and shaped it myself, and had an acquaintance do the coloring, for I am no artist.  I was not certain that you would accept it."

"Oh, yes," Erik answered quietly, dawning possibilities dancing through his mind.  To walk with Christine, to accompany her to the Opera, to walk about like a normal man, to perhaps dine in one of Paris' many restaurants.….  "What do I owe you for this?"

The look on his patron's face was more than enough reward for his hours of patient, difficult labor, and Jacques smiled.  "Take it with my blessings, my lord.  I want no recompense for this.  It was truly a mitzvah, and a pleasure."

Carefully, Erik replaced the delicate mask in the box and rose.  "Thank you," he said again simply, and departed into the night dark streets of Paris.

Erik stood before the mirror in their room, willingly looking into it for the first time in many years, turning his head side to side appraisingly.  The mask fit very well, lying smoothly against his skin.  The leather and fabric felt oddly lightweight, after the heavier porcelain.  Oh, he could still see where the edges lay against the "normal" flesh of his face, but at a passing glance, or if viewed from a distance, this new camouflage would work very well indeed, he thought.  

Erik turned his back to the mirror before replacing the mask in its small box.  He would say nothing to Christine just yet.  He would make a couple cautious forays into the streets of daylight Paris first, to see how many pointed looks he attracted, and to ascertain how well the wires secured the mask in the wind.  Perhaps if all went well, he would surprise his love with an outing….

After the blissfully calm interlude during late spring and early summer, life at the Opera House began to pick up its usual frenetic pace.  The new operatic production for the fall had been decided, and the principals began attending regularly scheduled meetings.  Preliminary set designs were discussed, roles were assigned, and measurements were taken for new costumes.

Christine lay curled against Erik one pleasant night, her cheek resting on his shoulder.  The windows were open and the filmy draperies fluttered, letting in the softly scented, cool evening breeze.  Erik lay with his face in shadow, enjoying the feeling of fresh air across his bare skin, and of Christine's small hand tracing idle patterns across his broad chest.

"You are most preoccupied tonight," he murmured, pressing his hand gently against the small of her back.

Christine sighed softly and moved her hand to tighten around his waist.  "I'll be gone all day again tomorrow, Erik.  I was just thinking about you being here alone so much."

He was silent a moment, then answered quietly.  "Christine, for many years I was alone, under the Opera, with nothing but more empty years to look forward to.  Now, I may be alone during the day, but I have the evenings with you.  Do not worry about me, my love."  He turned his head, kissing her forehead gently.  "You must concern yourself with the new opera, and not with me."

She looked up at him, seeing the shadows lying in black hollows across his face, feeling his warm, lean, solid body.  "I don't want you to be lonely," she whispered, knowing how trite it sounded.

Erik shook his head.  "I am not lonely," he murmured.  He turned toward her.  "My architecture keeps me occupied, Christine, as does my music.  I have much to do these days."  He raised a hand to lovingly stroke her cheek before kissing her again.  "Goodnight, my love."

She snuggled beside him.  "Goodnight, _mon__ ange."_

After some hours, Erik rose from the piano and looked out the bay windows.  The June sun shone down on a brilliant summer morning, and only the gentlest of breezes stirred the tips of the leafy crown of trees outside.  This would be a good day to try out the tailor's gift, he decided after some deliberation.

Erik chose his new gray suit, feeling odd not wearing his habitual black.  There was a _boulangerie_ and a _magasin__ de fleuriste that were quite close to one another on the Boulevard de Bonne Nouvelle.  He would surprise his Christine with a rose, and perhaps a _petite gateau_.  _

He was pleasantly surprised to discover that this mask indeed attracted less attention, and the pearl gray suit caused him to blend in effectively with the midday pedestrians along the sidewalk.  Erik quickly purchased the blossom and continued along his chosen route.  The unaccustomed heat and brilliance of the summer sunlight on his shoulders and head was mildly uncomfortable, and he stopped under an awning for a brief respite.

Ahead of him in one of the small sidewalk _brasseries sat a man and a woman in a rose-colored dress, talking and sipping drinks at a small round table, and Erik froze.  He abruptly turned to the nearby shop window, feigning interest in the elegant clocks displayed therein.  Though the woman's back was to him, it was clearly Christine, conversing earnestly with another young man.  The gentle breeze blew stray wisps of curls across her slender neck.  Erik moved slightly closer to them, studying the sandy-haired man narrowly, his preternatural hearing easily catching bits of their conversation._

She sat her glass aside and leaned forward.  "My husband knows nothing of our arrangement, and I prefer he not find out."

The man smiled, crinkles forming at the corners of his blue eyes.  "I understand your reasons, though you really shouldn't let this go on much longer without informing him."

Stubbornly, Christine shook her head.  "Not yet."

"As you wish."  He rose and Christine smiled brilliantly up at him.  

"Thank you for everything, Michael."

The handsome younger man raised her small white hand to his lips and gently kissed the backs of her fingers, and Christine blushed.

He could watch no more.  Erik moved quickly away, a dull thrumming in his ears, his chest tight with pain.  _She had said she would be at the Opera all day!  Who was this young man, this handsome young man, who so casually, familiarly touched his beloved Christine?   Slowly, he retraced his steps homeward, his errands forgotten._

Once back home, Erik moved with painful steps toward their bedroom and slowly removed the new mask and suit, his thoughts whirling, torn between rage and an abrupt, chilling fear.  Christine and this man clearly knew each other, had some prior agreement and arrangement to meet today, a meeting she had made no mention of.  He felt the painful, familiar tightening of muscle tension across his shoulders and neck, as the shimmering, dancing effects began at the edges of his vision, and his head began to throb.  _Oh Christine, he thought, anguished._

Half-blinded and nauseated from the intense spikes of pulsing pain in his head, Erik gave up the thought of groping his way to the cabinet for the medicinal herbs that eased the agony of these attacks, and went to lie on the bed in the darkened room.

Christine walked toward the café, feeling a pleasant tingle of anticipation.  Some weeks ago she had conceived of the idea to bring her beloved a surprise, and today she would meet with Michael Vernier so he might bring her the publisher's decision.  

He was waiting for her as agreed at a sidewalk café and quickly rose to pull out her chair, smiling a welcome.  Christine smiled at him in return, accepting the offer of a cool glass of lemonade.  "You look as though you have good news for me, Monsieur!"

"I do."  He paused, studying her with interest.  "You realize it is highly irregular to have a contractual agreement with the wife of the composer?"

"Oh, yes.  But the composer is an architect by profession, M. Vernier.  Music is his passion, his hobby, if you will.  I truly want to surprise him with this."

"Your husband is a man of great talent, Mme. de Becque, and do call me Michael.  Our resident pianist and violinists were most impressed with the sample works you brought us.  I hope we shall be seeing more from him, as well as meeting your husband soon.  Frankly, if you were not quite so well known, I doubt your proposition would have made it past the front desk.  We really need to have his signature and permission."

She sat her glass aside and leaned forward, frowning slightly.  "My husband knows nothing of our arrangement, and I prefer he not find out."

He smiled at her, crinkles forming at the corners of his blue eyes.  "I understand your reasons, though you really shouldn't let this go on much longer without informing him."

Stubbornly, Christine shook her head.  "Not yet."

"As you wish."  He rose and Christine smiled brilliantly up at him.  

"Thank you for everything, Michael.  This means a great deal to me, and I appreciate it."

The handsome younger man raised her small white hand to his lips to gently kiss the backs of her fingers, and Christine blushed.  "I'll be in contact with you soon.  _Au revoir, Mme. de Becque."_

Christine arrived home to a strangely quiet home much later that afternoon.  She paused in the foyer, removing her hat and gloves, listening intently.  It was unlike Erik to not greet her upon her return from the Opera.  She looked about the warm room.  A dark red rose bud lay in shadow, forgotten on the table and withered slightly from lack of water.  A tiny frown of concern drew her brows together and Christine tossed her outdoor attire onto the chair then turned to climb the stairs.

_She was home_.  He could hear her dainty footsteps pace as she called his name, telling himself it was not concern he heard in her voice.  The baffled rage of earlier was gone, replaced by a lacerating pain in his heart.  Erik flung an arm over his eyes, gritting his teeth at the agony in his head.

Christine steeped into their cool and darkened room, feeling a stab of fear at the sight of him lying motionless upon the bed.  "Erik!"  She rushed forward and knelt beside him, raising a hand to gently clasp his as she brushed her lips across his forehead.  "What is the matter, my angel?  It frightened me when you didn't answer.  Are you ill?"

"A headache, my love, nothing more," he whispered, stricken by her proximity.

Her soft cool hand gently brushed the hair from his forehead.  "Have you taken anything for it?  A tisane, a powder, perhaps?  I can bring you something…."

Erik shut his eyes.  "Thank you…perhaps if you would…."

She went to prepare the herbal drink, remembering the first time she had ever seen him thus afflicted.  It had been during the initial fortnight spent underground, and Erik had tried to hide the illness from her.  His physical robustness had never crossed her mind until that time.  He was always a vigorous, healthy man, seemingly indifferent or impervious to the all-too-human frailties of illness, hunger, exhaustion, and cold.  To see him lying helpless in the grip of pain had deeply frightened Christine.

She brought him the tisane and waited near him while he carefully sat up and sipped it, grimacing.

"Erik?" Christine asked softly, worried.  "Would you like me to leave you alone to rest, or would you rather me stay with you?"

His burning, exhausted eyes locked onto her face as he reached an unsteady hand toward her.  "Stay with me, Christine," he said softly.  _Always and forever._  It's all I've ever asked of you…__

Christine slipped off her outdoor shoes and eased herself down on their bed bedside him, trying not to unduly jar it.  Gently, she urged Erik to place his head into her lap, and he did so, burying the ravaged side of his face against the smooth silk of her dress.  Her small cool fingers gently swept across his forehead and down his neck, trying to soothe the pain and tension away.

"Tell me about your day, Christine," he whispered, catching her free hand and pulling it down to hold it carefully in his, against his heart.

She smiled.  "There's not much to tell."  Combing her fingers through the strands of his soft dark hair, Christine proceeded to talk softly about the events of her day.  Hélène had had problems with an intricate passage in the score, the pianist had been very late and had earned a scolding, and a funny little man had come again to sit in the wings of the theatre and sketch the dancers, but at no time did she mention leaving the Opera.  Erik felt the tension growing vise-like about his shoulders and he shifted restlessly under her touch.

"Christine, perhaps it would be best if you went back downstairs.  I'm sure you have things to do."

Surprised, she paused with one hand lying still against his hair.  "Are you certain, my love?  I don't mind staying with you."

"No, just leave me," he answered curtly.  "I need to sleep."

Christine rose then, blinking back the sudden bite of tears, wondering what she could have done to have given offense.  "All right," she said softly.  "Call me if you need me, Erik."  He did not open his eyes until her footsteps faded down the stairs and from his hearing.

She did not see him again that afternoon.  Erik was asleep, or at least appeared to be so, when Christine crept up the stairs some hours later to see if her husband would be interested in dinner.  She ate alone that evening, and occupied herself later with the mending basket, reflecting ruefully that sewing would not ever be an area she enjoyed, or was particularly proficient in.  Eventually, Christine put aside the mending and curled her slim legs under her skirts, gazing into the fire, lost in thought.  When he had still not come down to her by evening, she reluctantly walked about the house once then wearily climbed upstairs. 

Erik heard her slow footsteps as she gradually ascended the stairs.  He stared out the large window that looked out on the gardens, but showed from this angle only the tops of the moon-lit, wavering trees.  Christine entered their room quietly and crossed to the boudoir.  He listened in silence as she washed and removed the pins from her long hair, then shut his eyes upon hearing the sibilant noises of her undressing.  She did not speak to him, and Erik could only imagine her unwillingness at once again having to share a bed with him, at having to awaken each morning next to the horror that was his face.

He was sitting up in the bed when Christine returned from the small dressing room and she stopped, her face softening instantly.  "Erik?  Are you feeling better?"

"Yes," he said quietly, and she came to put her arms around him, relieved.  He slowly moved one arm stiffly around her, but forced himself to not to draw her close.  

She pulled back and searched his face, noting his watchful gaze.  "Erik?  What is wrong?"

"Nothing," he whispered.  "I am sorry that you have spent the evening by yourself."  _Ask her, fool.  But he remained silent, fearing the answer._

Christine sighed.  "Well, I kept myself occupied.  I missed you," she added softly, and felt him stiffen, but he made no response.  Studying his dark eyes she frowned.  "Erik, what's wrong?  You aren't yourself tonight."

"Perhaps it is my headache," he said lightly.  She turned away, blinking in shock at the untruth in his voice.  He had never lied to her, not since he had first let her believe he was the Angel of Music.  Stiffly, she untied the belt of her robe and draped it across the foot of their bed.  At once he stood slowly and walked quietly away to the boudoir, undressing and washing, dreading the moment when he would have to come back to her.

Erik did not attempt to touch her as they lay in bed, neither speaking, neither asleep.  She lay stiffly beside him, weary and heartsore.  Finally she heard his deep, uninflected voice, a near whisper as he said quietly, "Good night, Christine."

Christine lay staring blindly at the morning light as it crept down the far wall.  The worst had come in the night, when finally overcome with fear and remorse, he had turned to her, seeking to apologize and hold her.  A rising tide of anger from the strained silence and vague nausea from her solitary meal had caused her to recoil from his tentative caress, and Erik had flinched as though she had struck him.

"Don't be afraid of me, Christine, or to tell me the truth," he snapped.  "I can see you do not wish me to touch you.  Don't worry--I have never forced myself on a woman, and I'll be damned if I'll start with you."  He flung back the covers and rose, striding to the window and glaring out of it. _ Talk to me, Christine! he demanded silently.  __Tell me why you have lied to me, why you've been meeting this other man!_

Incensed, she sat up and glared at him, clutching the soft linen sheets around her shoulders.  "How am I expected to feel, Erik?  You've been less than honest with me this evening.  I'm not avoiding you—and I don't feel well."

Instantly he turned, a look of concern in his face.  "Christine, I'm sorry.  What can I do?"

"Nothing!" she snapped, furious.  "Just leave me alone!"

For a long minute he loomed above her, the Opera Ghost's intimidating manner, before his features settled into a chill, disdainful expression.  _I have been less than honest?!  "Your commands, my lady wife, are always my desires as well," he said, his voice a harsh whisper.  With that, he abruptly turned and left the room._

Erik did not return to their bed that night, and though she later cautiously sought him throughout their house, did not find him.  Exhausted, Christine finally fell asleep toward dawn, and when she awoke, found Erik sitting unmoving and silent in the chair across the room, watching her with a tight, flat expression she could not identify.  

He looked at her with cool black eyes, wary of her mood this morning, and angrily, she turned and went downstairs, not speaking.  He followed her somewhat later, and breakfast was eaten in near silence.  Erik's unhappy, accusing gaze reproached her, and Christine flushed, a sign he could only interpret as guilt.  

As a result of this tension Erik threw himself into his new work, desperate to fill the sudden silences and the void that had grown between them.  He drove out to the bridge site with David on the next evening, in order to better decide on the proper course of action.  Many nights he spent down in the study, pouring over plans and specifications, notes on elevation and sub-surface soils, or photographs of the building sites, rather than come upstairs to their shared bed.  They slept stiffly side by side, not touching, and Christine was often gone when he awoke in the mornings.

His old nocturnal habits came into play again, for as he was unable to sleep for more than an hour or two beside his wife, Erik stalked the rooms of their silent house.  Several times he sat on the back terrace, fingers steepled and staring broodingly across the night dark lawn.  Though his body hurt for her, his soul shrank from any more overtures at reconciliation.  Erik sighed, glancing up toward their darkened windows.

Even David had noticed the awkward and constrained silence between them, but given his partner's reticence to discuss any subject connected with his personal life, did not inquire.  Erik walked about like a man suddenly grown old, deep lines etched around his eyes, and his mouth drawn into a forbidding line.

The only contact they had any more it seemed, was through music, for Christine, unhappily seeking any method by which she might yet discover the problem between them, had asked her husband to resume her lessons that she might be better prepared for the new opera.  Erik himself played by the hour, his music speaking to her, telling her what he dared not say.  She heard his unspoken questions and impossible longings, voiced by the piano or the aching strains of his violin, but could not fathom how to phrase an answer.  It was as though they had been transported somehow back to the days below the Opera House, during that first painful fortnight spent together.

Christine moved her hands to place them on her lower back, elbows out and arching backward to release the strained tension in her spine.  Her lower back had been painful for days now, between the tension of her strained relationship with Erik and the rigorous new rehearsal schedule.  

In the music room, Erik made an abortive movement toward her but forced himself to stop, knowing his touch was unwelcome.  Clenching his fist, he turned back to the piano and reached stiffly for his pen.  

She shook her head and stared blindly into the now tepid mug of tea.  It had been days now since Erik had touched her, days since he had treated her with anything but this aloof courtesy.  This sudden coldness and reserve after weeks of happiness was intolerable, but she could see no way out of it.  Erik was always incredibly taciturn about his feelings, and this wall of impenetrable silence seemed insurmountable.  She knew him well enough to know he would not approach her again, that she would have to be the one to breach this crack in the foundation of their marriage.  For her part, Christine knew only she had failed him somehow, and thought perhaps their problems stemmed from the amount of time she had left him alone in recent days, due to her opera schedule, yet her offers to spend more time with him, or to go out in the evenings for walks to the Bois or along the Seine were gently but firmly rebuffed.  Erik seemed to be more and more withdrawing into the cold and cynical man he had been when they first met.  She was unaware he had followed her once more to a meeting with Michael Vernier, and that angry pride prevented him from speaking of her betrayal.

Meg noticed her abrupt silence on the subject of their home life and questioned her gently one morning when a few quiet minutes could be found between their differing rehearsal schedules.  She drew her friend into one of the many small lounges scattered around the magnificent building, her sea-blue eyes concerned. 

"Christine, you've been so quiet lately.  I never hear you speak of Erik or your home anymore."  She covered her friend's hands with her own.  "Is something wrong?  I'm worried about you."

Christine's eyes filled with tears, and in spite of her vow not to discuss their problems, found herself telling her troubles to Meg.  

"Oh, Meg, Erik is unhappy with me, over something, I don't know what; he won't talk to me.  I can't think of anything I've done; all I can think is that I've somehow disappointed him in some way.  I hardly ever see him anymore.  He spends hours with David working out the problems with that bridge, or down in his study.  He never comes to bed until he's sure I am asleep.  He hasn't even touched me in days.  Oh, God, Meg, I don't know what to do."  She buried her face in her hands, choking back the grief.

"Oh, Christine, I'm so sorry," breathed Meg, wrapping a comforting arm about her oldest friend.  "I wish there was something I could say."

"If I knew what to do, I'd have done it by now," Christine said savagely.  "I can't believe we've been through…all that we've gone through, just to have it end like this."

"All marriages have their times of trouble, Christine."  Adele Giry said behind them.  

"Madame!"  Christine stood quickly, out of long habit.  

"Mamman, this was a private conversation," Meg said, her eyes flashing.

Adele sighed.  "I am aware you meant this to be private.  I was seeking Mme. de Becque myself."  She turned to the young woman, and Christine raised her chin defiantly, refusing to cry in front of this proud woman who had been her teacher.  "My child, you have not been yourself lately, and I came to see how I could help."  Her dark eyes looked over at her pale daughter, standing protectively by the singer.  "Megan, go and shut that door that we may have some privacy."

Flushing, Meg dropped her stormy eyes and went to do as asked, returning defiantly to sit on the sofa, where her mother had urged Christine to rest.

"Christine, you have been married for some months now, and this has been a time of great change for you both.  Can you think of any event that could have caused this sudden strain between you?"

Christine caught her lower kip between her teeth and shook her head violently, not trusting herself to speak.  "No, Mme. Giry, I cannot.  Erik acts as though I've done something truly reprehensible, but I haven't, and I've been so tired and cross lately that he just avoids me."  She took Meg's silently proffered handkerchief and scrubbed at her eyes.

Adele Giry sat quietly, thinking, observing her daughter's friend closely.  After a minute she smiled very faintly.  "My child, come with me.  Perhaps I can help clarify matters."

Returning to the Opera that sunny afternoon, Christine found herself being hailed by a hearty voice calling her name.  Turning, she saw Michael Vernier sprinting up the carriage ramp toward her, waving a slim package in the air.

He panted to a stop, smiling widely.  "Mme. de Becque, I'm glad to have caught you.  I was on my way to the Opera to deliver this to you."  He tucked the parcel firmly into her hands and she looked up at him, her blue eyes shining.  

"Is this what I think it is?"

He grinned down at her, pleased.  "Yes, it's the very first copy, bound and printed.  There's also a contract with it for your husband to sign."

Delighted, she squeezed his hands gratefully.  "M. Vernier, you could not have brought this to me at a better time.  I'll let you know very soon about the contract and the publication rights.  Thank you so very, very much!"

He lifted his hat to her.  "Mme. de Becque, I look forward to doing business with you and your retiring husband.  _Au revoir!"_

Christine watched him go, then turned and hurried inside the building.  She would beg the afternoon off, to go be with her husband.

Erik rose from his desk and glided silently to where the grand piano sat in a pool of flickering shadows, as the sunlight scattered through the leaves of the great oak tree outside the bay windows.  He bent over the instrument, trying out a passage for his new composition, his _Persian Suite.  For some years now he had been toying with the idea of setting the moods and essence of that country to music.  Stacks of creamy thick composition paper were scattered across the lid of the piano, covered with swirls of black musical notation.  Erik rose from the bench and seized the pen, adding to and correcting the measures involved.  This was to be a symphony, and would reflect the staccato hammer of war drums, the slurring of granulated sands across miles of empty desert and stone, the wild ringing of foreign instruments at court, and the lonely wail of the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer.  Distantly, he was aware when the front door opened, his sharp hearing automatically registering those particular footsteps as Christine's._

She entered the room bringing a swirl of outside scents, noting the evidence of his morning's work; music scattered everywhere, the black spark and furor of creative genius in her beloved's eyes.  Deliberately ignoring the strain of the past few days, Christine stood on her toes to kiss him exuberantly and took his hands in her own, drawing him down beside her on the piano bench, her face flushed and her blue eyes sparkling.

"Hold out your hands, Erik, I have something for you!"

Doubtfully, he gazed at her a minute before dutifully closing his eyes and doing as she asked.

The look on Erik's face when she placed the bound, printed collection of his sonatas in his hands made the weeks of trouble more than worthwhile.  For a moment, he could only stare blindly at the dark crimson cover, printed with his name in gold leaf, before slowly opening the folio with trembling hands.  There before him lay his music, the haunting melodies he had composed during the years of his exile in the underground house beyond the lake, now published and publicly acclaimed.

Inside the cover lay a signed document, a contract listing the upcoming publication dates for other compositions—the _Arias, the __Vocal Exercises, and his _Symphony #2 in D Minor_, awaiting only his signature of permission to proceed._

"Oh, Christine," he whispered, stunned and moved beyond words.  He carefully, reverently placed the music folio on their piano and pulled her to him.  "My music, for the world to see…" he broke off, unable to continue.  "How?"

Delighted with the effectiveness of her surprise Christine told him quickly.  "I took them, one at a time to the copyist.  I knew the publishing house where our music is ordered, and I made an appointment to see a representative there.  I'm afraid I played rather shamelessly on my name," she admitted, "but they listened to me."  Christine stopped and dropped a kiss on his upturned face.  "They asked their resident pianist to play parts of each composition, and I sang with a few of them.  They agreed to publish the _Sonatas immediately, and asked for more submissions of your work.  I've been slowly sending them each piece.  They would like very much to meet you, Erik, but I've told them I'm not sure it's possible."_

He lifted the folio again, reading the contract, noting this time the name that had been clawing at the edges of his mind, the name signed at the bottom as a representative of the publishing house.  Michael Vernier.  Slowly, he pulled in a deep breath, and tapped the name with a long forefinger.

"This man…what does he look like?"

Puzzled, Christine answered him.  "Michael?  He's not as tall as you.  He has blue eyes and sandy hair.  He's handsome enough, I suppose.  Meg adores him."

"Meg adores everyone," he replied dryly.  "Christine, I must apologize," he continued stiffly.  "You met with him once, in a café, did you not?  And you've met with him several other times."

Searching his tight face, she nodded.  "Yes, of course I did.  We had to go over the contract, and I had to bring your music to him.  You didn't think…Erik, you didn't mention this to me, that you'd seen us together.  Is that what's been wrong between us, these last several days?  You thought I was seeing another man?  That I had betrayed you, and our marriage vows?"  She whirled away from him, her momentarily elation eclipsed by sudden fury.

Erik could hear the low anger building in her voice, and the emotional strain of the last week cost him his precarious grip on his temper.  "What was I to think?  You've never been secretive before.  And he is a young and handsome man, Christine!  I saw the way he looked at you, how he touched you, that day in the café!"

She lifted her chin, tears welling up in her blue eyes, her lovely face devoid of expression.  "I have no idea what you are talking about.  Michael only ever kissed the back of my hand one time.  He's married, for God's sake, and so am I!  What are you implying?"

His deep voice reached her easily from the other side of the room.  "I didn't know what to think, Christine," he said tiredly.  "I only knew you were not being truthful with me."

Christine watched him move restlessly to the piano, seeing his broad shoulders bent under the shroud of sadness and strain, the proud angle of the head he kept turned away from her.  He was Erik, her dark angel, and she was forcibly reminded again how the man he had become had been shaped by a lifetime's experiences of betrayal and rejection.  She swallowed hard and said softly, "Erik, you weren't supposed to think anything of it.  I meant it as a surprise, and I'm sorry.  I wish I'd realized weeks ago that you knew.  I would have told you then, rather than cause this difficulty between us."  

She took a step forward just as Erik turned and swiftly crossed the space between them, grasping her upper arms tightly in his powerful hands.  Black eyes blazed down furiously into hers.  "Damn it, Christine, I asked you not to go without my knowledge and do something like this again!"

Tears filled her eyes.  "Erik, you're hurting me!"

With an obvious effort, he released her arms and spun away, glaring out the window into the painfully bright garden.  _Do you have any idea just how you have been hurting me? _

Christine stood there, rubbing her upper arm with one hand, seeing his rigid posture and the tense set of his jaw.  He was extremely angry with her, she realized.

"Erik," she said in a small voice, "do you want me to go away?"

He turned around at that, stalking toward her, as intimidating and frightening as he had been during the _Ball Masque, and she shrank back from him._

Erik seized her again, pulling her tightly into his arms.  "Never say that again, Christine, you are _mine_!" he said fiercely.  He bent his head and claimed her lips, kissing her with an unaccustomed possessiveness.

Limp with sudden relief, she pulled slightly away from his fierce embrace.  "I've never been anything but yours, Erik.  Are you pleased about the music?"

"Of course I am pleased."

Relieved to have found a temporary ease in their tumultuous, strained silence, she raised her face to his again.  The stress and tension melted away under the searing passion of his kiss, erasing the grimness from his face.  Erik effortlessly gathered her into his strong arms, lifting her tightly against him, and she buried her face against his neck.  "Christine, never, never do that to me again," he murmured.  "I have lived in hell for these last few days.  I could only imagine that you had grown tired of me, had tired of our life together.  I should have trusted you more."

"Oh, Erik, I'm sorry, and I promise," she said penitently, then raised shy blue eyes to his.  "My love," she said, blushing, "Do you think we might go upstairs?  I've missed you so…."

"Of course, _mon_ ange_."  He swung her up into his arms with ease and Christine curved one arm around his neck.  As they climbed the dark green carpet up to their bedroom, his black eyes never left her face._

 "I need to tell you something else, Erik." She whispered against his chest, much later.

His arm pulled her closer.  "What, _cara__ mia?" he asked lazily, his fingers moving gently over the surface of her nightgown._

Christine raised herself up on one elbow, seeking his brilliant black eyes where he lay still partially in the shadows.  "I know why I've been so tired and cross with you lately."

"Mmmm?" he made an encouraging noise.  "And what would that be?"

She took a deep breath.  "Erik, you're going to be a father.  I'm going to have a baby."

Time stopped and stood still as her words penetrated his mind.  Christine heard the sudden sharp catch of his breathing.  "A baby?  Our baby?"  He stared at her, temporarily shocked.  The implications of a child whirled through his mind, and Erik felt a new paralysis of horror.  

"You look so surprised, my love."

"Christine, I never thought I would father a child; I thought, I had hoped, that perhaps I could not," he whispered.  

She turned his head with a gentle hand to look into his eyes.  "Why, Erik?  Surely a child is the natural outcome of our love for each other."

He leaned his cheek against her hair.  "After so many months passed and you did not become pregnant, I dared to hope this would not happen."  His arms tightened about her.  "Christine, what if…" he could not bring himself to complete the sentence, his throat closing tightly. 

She sat up, understanding his unspoken fear, and looked at him fiercely.  "I hope if it is a boy, he _will_ look like you!"

"Christine!" Erik said, stricken.

She leaned her forehead against his, and smiled lovingly.  "I hope he has your black eyes and dark hair, your white teeth, your tall strong body and broad shoulders!  I hope he will be as talented and as intelligent as the man I love!  Why wouldn't I want him to be like you!"

Erik pushed her gently away from him.  "You are teasing me," he said gravely, a smile lurking around one corner of his mouth, but his tense expression remained tight with trepidation.

Christine kissed him fondly.  "Of course I am, my love."  Her voice sobered as she said quietly, "Erik, there is no reason to think any child of ours would be born with… problems.  I am healthy and I promise to take good care of myself and our baby.  And, should it occur, we will love him and care for him as best we are able.  Our baby will have two parents who love him and each other very much.  He will never be alone," she said gently. 

Erik nodded once, accepting this.  "But what of your career?" 

"I'll have to take the spring season off, of course, to be here during the last of my pregnancy, but perhaps I can go back some time next fall."

Still stunned, he made no reply, and she looked at him, a faint line of worry between her eyes.  "Erik, are you angry?  I thought you'd be pleased."

"Pleased?" he whispered.  "I cannot begin to tell you…  A child of ours…"  Tenderly, he drew her toward him and kissed her gently, as though she were now somehow fragile.  "How do you feel, my love?" he asked with concern and she smiled serenely at him.

"I'm fine, my love."

Wonderingly, he laid a hand carefully across her abdomen, as if to somehow feel the small spark of life she carried deep within her body.  She snuggled against him, radiantly happy at his acceptance.

"Erik, what shall we name our child?"

He considered.  "If it is to be a boy, I would like Stephan, for your father, and if it is to be a girl," his voice softened, "I would like to call her Rose."

_And so their lives passed from the world of the fairy tale into the lives of ordinary men and women, for after all, to the unloved child who grew up to be the Phantom, and to the lonely orphan who grew up to be Christine, an ordinary ending was for them, the fairy tale they had always dreamed of._

**_--Fin--_**

@}~--'--,---'---,----

Author's note—I'm so sorry this story is over.  I've enjoyed every minute of writing it and rereading it.  I feel like I've met some new friends through FanFiction.Net.  I'll keep an eye out for your new submissions, and who knows, maybe you'll hear from me again one of these days….--Riene

_Some enchanted evening, you may see a stranger_

_You may see a stranger, across a crowded room_

_And somehow you know, you know even then_

_That somewhere you'll see her again and again._

_Some enchanted evening, someone may be laughing_

_You may hear her laughing, across a crowded room_

_And night after night, as strange as it seems_

_The sound of her laughter will sing in your dreams._

_Who can explain it, who can tell you why_

_Fools give you reasons, wise men never try._

_Some enchanted evening, when you find your true love_

_When you feel her call you, across a crowded room,_

_Then fly to her side, and make her your own_

_Or all through your life you may be all alone._

_Some Enchanted Evening_--1949

_R. Rodgers and O. Hammerstein II_

And a final quote:

_"It's over now, the music of the night…"_

Erik, final scene, _The Phantom of the Opera, of course. _


End file.
